It’s never enough, bogus as passivity, war bound, eating seaweeds. Can I be honest? I see it as partial, as distorted, as peeking at Jesus. I was lost. I asserted a location. I might be lost. Not big on Nietzsche, not hard on Camus, like what in hell is going on? I walked from Hollywood to Watts. I spoke to each face. I was suspicious, I was sliding, I jumped tracks. Never just asked—what is redundancy? Can I be honest? I give a damn, rather be nice, permitting each to define life. Never pushing. Never laughing at you. Never asking too many damn questions. I took to humanitarians. Lots of suffering. To be free is to be in it. Can I be honest? I pride friendship over love. Just a hunch! I never went to Jerusalem. I read every line. More indebted to a space than to biology. I never went to Africa, just listen, how in hell did I get here? At pigmentation—at wars—many prove loyal to pain. Could’ve asked. Could’ve received. I could’ve divulged the ache—the dream, assorted miracles. Can I be Honest? I give a damn, do it until it hurts, leave me to visions, to energies, sitting still, face twitching. Can I be honest? I don’t see it like normality. I’ve no tendency to be normal. It looks painful. I hurt enough! Was I honest!
Can I Be Honest?
It’s never enough, bogus as
passivity, war bound, eating
seaweeds. Can I be honest? I see it
as partial, as distorted, as peeking
at Jesus. I was lost. I asserted
a location. I might be lost. Not big
on Nietzsche, not hard on Camus, like what
in hell is going on? I walked from
Hollywood to Watts. I spoke to each face.
I was suspicious, I was sliding, I
jumped tracks. Never just asked—what is
redundancy? Can I be honest? I
give a damn, rather be nice, permitting
each to define life. Never pushing.
Never laughing at you. Never asking
too many damn questions. I took to
humanitarians. Lots of suffering.
To be free is to be in it. Can I
be honest? I pride friendship over love.
Just a hunch! I never went to
Jerusalem. I read every line. More
indebted to a space than to
biology. I never went to
Africa, just listen, how in hell did
I get here? At pigmentation—at wars
—many prove loyal to pain. Could’ve asked.
Could’ve received. I could’ve divulged the
ache—the dream, assorted miracles. Can
I be Honest? I give a damn, do it
until it hurts, leave me to visions, to
energies, sitting still, face twitching. Can
I be honest? I don’t see it like
normality. I’ve no tendency to
be normal. It looks painful. I hurt enough!
Was I honest!
