pure book
pure writing
pure plot
putrid world
pure writer remembers a world when he did not see outside of the bag
his writing is a reflection of an echo of time redone within the week
an army of days
a year
do it all again
to not be the old man that turns into a baby
Mr Peanut Rockerfeller
crawl to walk
and then the man with the cane came
wood he do it again?
Thursdays?
Kill the thing I love?
Can I deal within it in my own loins?
Yes.
To be whole is to have and not to hold
and the echo the reflection
the players and the game
the white lines
the stepping over
the coming back
the hearts not hole
the A frame in the snow
and Lincolns log cabin
biblical a house divided cannot stand.

Masoch died in a asylum
there was no TB then
give me an Adirondack chair
or give me my principles
the boy with the golden arm
the mind is a muscle
the mussles eye the one eyes Lobster
and I grow another wing by being absent that day
living one moment at a time
Confucius makes me aware
to not repeat it
my cell phone is off
the stink of my cell is gone
maybe the phone will ring
to lose, to win, is one and then same
to fly
to crash and burn
to bootstrap and look up
who is in her feet
is it me?
It is never her.
Death becomes her.