With war made inevitable the news announcing souls,
many problems for the blemish; most things look uneven, a mind near mushrooms,
forbidden from peace. I never utter a word, the pain for silence, to know with
certainty. The essence is maintaining the innocence, quietude, with never an
increase in dementia. Her lot her knot, her vendetta her curse, like framed to
meet at the tribunal; candy marbles, a warrant from God, the head and not the
tail—lost and confused, like found in total reason. What we avoid, we become,
the hat he gave, we give to another; ha! I was standing the exhaust, I was
mingling with lesbians, I felt appreciated—the mountain bleeding those hills
screaming, her face racing across California. To sit at my side, to wonder and
get paid, it hast to increase in intensity—and Love caught a homicide. So
drastic over a mere rumor—so tragic over what was imagined, a menace in his
grave, a blank expression, finally to pass over. A bag made Gucci, a skirt made
Prada, a life surpassing the ghetto. A need in turmoil, a beige ruler, to
wonder why existence remains vague.
