I am thinking about nothing. We received a call from H. My father stalks me on line. He calls me a profligate. He asked me is it safe? It certainly is safe without his mind games and violence. It’s ironic that the victims in life are seen as hysterical and violent while the controllers are seen as calm. There is pleasure in breathing.
Our daughter had her last tantrum and now sleeps alone. Does she have rage because she demands more than she can have? Again and again she is thrust onto herself like the meeting of sea with land mass.
I hear my wife on her key pad, the washing machine and the dry heat in the vents.
There is so much that is worth writing about: Tunisia, Egypt, Pakistan, and the United State of America.
My wife is upset with my family. They have tormented us and we them. The old man will not break me. Fathers and sons have been fighting one another since we can remember time.
The state, the family, the tree, the park, the river, the machine…
I hate it when my wife cleans up in front of me. It is passive aggressive.
The time has come for us to fuck.
My wife asks me to turn down the music. I lay in bed not moving a muscle. A Russian writer said that freedom is similar to prison. It is a very fine line. One day we are slaves and stifled and another day we are free and terrified.
I abscond exercise Health, Unity and God. When they say God Bless they mean all in one and one in all. Disorder is necessary for growth. Illness is necessary for growth.
One man running on a track.
The weather bares down like a genius.
My step father with his hammer of generosity and indebtedness wants the fun never to end.
My mother liked it when we fought, my teenage ego bashed in by an old man.
Sweat like warm blood runs down my face.
Pore behind pore.
The heart is a sac of blue and red blood.
Sex is convulsive.
Running is barbaric.
I clear the woods with my breath.
I imitate to survive.
Doc. with the clinical gaze who are you?
I love trees as did my mother.
My daughter’s small yellow school bus is hope. Everything she names lives in me forever.
I have no image for the sea.
Hearing is a feeling.
I feel my breath with my ear.
I ear this.
I ear that.
I throat ear.
I line up my ear with the shore.
The sea is thrust back onto itself and it doesn’t return.
Sea mass under stone.
Sea mass above stone.
Sky mass under stone.
Sky mass above stone.
Mass into mass is not a color.
The mass into mass that is not a color is darkness.