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)