So much held in reserve, a day we speak to mire, mud,
skies for slums. To make rising like pride, losing humility, silenced by
devastation; like falderal, to have adored what hates self, too much to walk
away. A teenage rule, much possession, Love was mine; indeed, can’t say that,
despite living that. Remaining hungry, shrimp, reding, hush puppies—steak,
broccoli, baked potatoes. Living a certain way, demons, heartbreak, living my
part. So amazed to read him, King Jr., an exclusive martyr. Early winds,
elaborate kites, a pregnant atmosphere—feelings stagnant, overwhelming, motion
at all times; indeed, rather dismiss it, than look at it, what a generation
made; so normal to gamble, so normal to play sports, so rapid at music, such
talents, to discover ourselves.
