10-8-4AM

Orphits, in my braised hollow. Simmering owls fed wiles. O this sitely view of umbrellas brilling over the alaskan corpse of my ash scraped memory. A tune to ride, like hoping hollowed out and starting over on the face of burdenned hours. I will embark on this journey to the racks we set sail from, without a hand on the steer. I will go back, through the black walls, through the howling vacance of our blood, through the invisible monsters that gobbled our time, through the waves we let pass between us in hopes of preserving the distant veiw of your ideals. I will go back to the real cry that I first let speak for our loss. Let all the bodies of our children float back to us warm with tears that reveal our nature. I will not set foot on the land until i have retrieved my remains. O shallow let me go. O father let me off your hook. O mother come with me into the past where you bore me without a hand to hold. O sisters, follow me, leave your desperation on the sand and climb onto this raft, that is setting into the heart of dawn.

And suddenly the spark will come to shudder, smooth out, and all crass rememberances will cry wiley and joke and my father will take us all out (you and I, and the rest) to griffith park, and we'll cry all the while cheeks shake and shuttle upon the ponies we aren't supposed to kick. O lordy, someday we're supposed to fall and live, and what if the consequenses of our personal loves just shake upon the sparks of stars and see nothing, nothing, nothing buzzing like a fly, a million fillaments obstinantly speaking on. I know how to love all too well. I cover their faces with the easy inevability of suppossed giving. When asleep I always walk around Beacon Hill though I know and fear returning to my home and Him in Roxbury, and I think of a false love, groping towards immediate satisfaction, the ability to live and digress in dress upon all that you are living for.