no suit controls me. my boot, it rolls free. wonder ‘round
solar systems with bipolar vision. me,
33, with slightly older wisdom. look 4ward to Art prison,
in Ides of March, given. and mephistopheles never
bothered me. wine with athena and moses, somewhat
free but i’m chosen. for what? doesn’t matter, i’m
stuck. strut through thick ruts, from a missed luck.
lost in my creative ways–dire diarism. there’ll never
be brevity. ride waves to high cave. four books
done when i remerge, then return for the reverb.
quicker i speak, become weak. forced to leave
to get emotions off sleeves. speak to trees,
while breeze sees 3 keys. to what? all of it.
fall in pits of consumerism, consumption. i think i’ll
take a dozen, hear someone say, passing my way,
disregard, certain sits leak shards, mechanized for better
(7/6/12, Friday, 8:39am)