…not letting it.  Stoic attempt… no anger, no saddens, no emotion.  Just an even skip from moment to moment.

And I sip the espresso like and idiot and I am Loma Prieta.  Not sure I spelled that right but don’t give a fuck.  I am a sharp blade this morning, and indiscriminate.  More poetry, less paragraphs.  Less formalities.. new code of Composition..

Talking to myself

New equation and mapping

Void of something, not fasting

Need to think more like a songwriter and poet, sketcher than essayist.  This return to teaching like I addressed with the Nurse brings with it this – the new Composition.  No more of this formalism or feeling any need for longer stretched-out expression.

No more cage in this new aged. By new hues of happiness, dazed.  Sovereign and SOLO – 

Nothing coming to my aid.  Nothing needed.  Why—

Self-doubt and low self-view controlled, altered, and deleted.  I’m claiming my happiness and battling any and all faces and voices and documents threatening it.

Poems scratched and sketched on napkins, Beatnik and trumpet like, Miles and Sonny, Jack.

Freeing in these lines, new style and stylistic sweep of mind.  Whatever season, my new resoluteness never beaten.

Journal.. need more ink, more actual writing, the pen to paper, over lines, that intimacy and progression and exploration of self.  Taking some time to self, no writing, just collection and meditation, introspection and unwritten elevation.