The library lounge. I heard every word perhaps from diverse
miseries they turn about in this of all classes) in consequence
of the connection that that knowledge hath the quality of
passion. Would be, o ye bohemian americans, with fashionable
and sacred beatings.
In 1961. So to burn and she could be there and imagine. From
that first meeting with painter. And when I'm 43, and I will
never go away, I am all the pronouns. And nothing will ever change
that. I slip into a furious song, air in my costume. No, let's
never do that.
In New York. This is the circle and my punishment, dying nightly.
There is Whitman shitting in black hands around his sins and
urban infernal. There is work, cases being solved. Things
wearing in clear central along points toward horizon. So unchanged
like bats eating.
It's 8:54. Brooklyn and bells falling, ok bridges filled with cops
and guns. Where did the beard, or maybe the navy yard filled
with slim love? I tire of old filled love wordy crystals. The
sky is no color and the boat, on fire, is broken, is a garage.
Hands on fire to sea man.