piano the strategy—mother
died this morning—too many words for souls to carry, too many pains, lifting
iron to feel better—much on the violin, just passed Vermont, listening to
classicals. it’s different in some people, they need to do right, a struggle
inside many men. morals seem dangerous, I wonder about women, I wonder if it’s
a big concern—while I lust, I want, I need her—so useless, such a sacrifice, so
many hypocritical diamonds.
The Ghost is awake, does it ever sleep, days are
becoming mathematical? the sewer stinks. we squat low. never knew I was going
home. walls tell stories, an old tag on Crenshaw, the cat was a true hog;
nights die, can’t get it back, riding a feeling; broke my emotion, the goodwill
in meditation, the river flowing into skies—a soul languishing, feeling heavy,
most hot, heated, a target of his rage.
I passed through Lakewood, it was getting easier, like
a man never sensed it was different.
maybe the game is clogged, maybe the spirit is mobile,
maybe Love would if it was secure—if it promised life, eternity, like no one
but us.
I ate a plum. I thought to fairy tales. I was bent on
a fantasy. it seems odd, but I must confess, some people we jus t know, we can
guarantee life would be better.
