Running soon.  Good.  I need to get outside.  This mood’s fading, yes.  But it’s there.. humming, growling, doing something to my character.  No wine tonight.  Want change, Newness.. a new level of venom, passion, obsession with my pages.

Thinking in poem, before I hit concrete of Fountaingrove’s inclines–  But how to put into form, marketable form.  Jack Kerouac’s books at left.. he tells me not to care.  “The colleges don’t know what to do with someone like you.” My punctuation, fluctuating, I notice, with how sometimes I put a period to the right of closing quote, but I don’t care.. I hate punctuation.  Why even have MLA when EVERYONE, especially us Beats disobey?

Leaving in a bit.  And my mood, still there.

a bag for work, work–

you know

I hate that word, that

concept, them, all them, the clock


jubilant for our jailing, so I run

up hills that steal my oxygen, pain  my legs like

I’m rarely diseased

Ingest that comparison