sadly hung over the primate's back like a bag of stones, rachmaninoff through the night, and a vision of a book.

a book we will make to show the way of peace and music.  and softly it was repeated as of yore, no one understands like you do, and that is all.  and bitter come the tears to remind me, i am not incapable of feeling, when so much leaves me dead.  and a book of my father's poems for you, in the darkness, when i will hold you in my mind, in digital time.  words inked on paper and tears, and one silly thing i said, i did not have to say, but did, so you might know, so it might be clear in our delicate way, with years set forth like cards, more elaborate garlands for your altar, there is only one love, and all the others a struggle.  there need only be one, one love, if to undersrtand is to love, and to ask little to love.  in years i will give you so much more.

and the words you heard from me of utopia as israel screamed . . . of peace

to uncover who has tea, it would be better over tea to recall.  and then water.  the art deco piped of dilapidated los angeles will yield a brew of stolen water full of iron and other metals,

so water might be had, whether full of plastic leeching, or not, elsewhwere.

i am full of angst at the end of good times, clearly announced, it will be not so, we might have tea again, and so it spoils the brew.

he said, i think she wants something more.
i said, well who doesn't? you are just so wonderful.

but really i have all i want, more happiness than i can remember for years, and dreams, and fears.

and then for afternoon appointments, i was surprised to be treated like an adult of sorts.
as if the blogosphere never happened and my musings were my quiet own.

if my mrs. stephens 06 sorority pin were strangled around my thick well-fed neck, or the daughters of the revolution, it were nigh.

i could never impersonate money, not with coats in the mail or a solitary spoon.

my most elevated moneyed dalliance wrote me something snide about cats and baggage, and i kept it clear,
i am so sorry to bother you.


amazing that so much hostility can be conveyed through the ether, as if i did not feel it before.

with books rid of, i have less to remind me, of my sorrow and forlorn dreams.

if i were to go into london town, i would stay unto myself and tour the museums, without congress.  i need no help at passions.

but that i must fight the urge of my biggest dreams, and retire to the country, and my sick father, might kill me if i find no love.
and the hatred and cruelty, that i love emilia, a sign of sin and immaturity, sits ill in circumstance, so i might find another way of being, far from such hate.

it was years passed of denials, reprisals, enough to say, respect me now, when crumpled i was, into nausea, and years lethargy, and someone quotes a sum, like a price on a casket, a figure, of worth.

i will go back to my books now, with sinking heart, hungry for nothing, in the twilight of the morning, ready for afternoon's steady curse.