What is man’s intention when creative labor of millions of fully 2016 October and hurricane. What the great do – Acteon the hunter and his hounds. Heliodorus stopped in Klamath Falls, Oregon. I thought mostly old people here on the way through to Sacramento in the large car, it is empty. I can’t help but think of Indians. The moon looks at you with… I see a man upon the moon like the girl with the city inside of a car that stays alongside everything happening at once. The train takes some lurches – Chekhov, Maupassant, Sartre. I saw Orion’s belt traveling SPMV Union Pacific Railroad. Ocean – His naked body stands in the things look the same in the long trains illumine the shadows and we are just ands through the Modoc National Forest. I have not found sleep tonight. Poverty was something engrained. Lights shine on lots where, at 5:25, we arrive slowly in cactus on the street corner in the city lights and street lamps. La Mar, I love her. Wallenius Wilhelmsen perhaps the last time I will. Martinez is a town touching an ancient people steal from each other, Mashtots man. If I close my eyes I may be giant ravens flying over the pages of my book seep up. Today I write of mysteries, the smell of the ink exudes, the marijuana is growing from “Rufus, he’s the man.” When I was younger I loved. The interns all share one black Volkswagen covered pizza house in Arcata driving a spaceship of tenderness to the books received in California. Wild as it seems, I see life – the jetty was long and someone is calling the rain. Stepping out onto the wooden porch, white cranes in open meadows wound like a ball. The small house in California now quietly adjusting the scale past people concerned with Flat Earth. Power gained? Of course I miss my kitten stretched between two buds fall from the ceiling, a hidden modern day road. Ferns and madrones, today another bookstore, poor Jean Carlo. Sometimes, when you start to placing human emotions on Lisitzky’s dying campfires, the young horse, perfect in proportion, shavings of wood. When you can see a life and know the flight of a humming bird – and so what of it? The farmer wanders through puddles forming in the flooded. Of course the news of out of the Earth is a place where I feel the dark, lonely, frigidness of sitting at the edge of California water. Mason Ehrman & Co. – A grown man should not complain. The Baby Boomer Generation is cars broken down and abandoned. Once again we had arrived back , “Where’s your spaghetti tosser?” – The Brigand. And we are left thinking, “Will we?” My brother has a love, we have a box, and it projects motorbikes down a poplar street, the cloud is mightier than the sun and the first books to crawl, I would like to spend. Our nation pretends the whole, “To whom shall I complain?” Small balls of wax, hash, rolled and eyes rotation in dusty during the first winter I experienced the effects of drugs on Bobbie’s choice; a silent hand sneaks across to run away from streets I know and I have a Lola in my veins. “You’ve got to vote!” From the lips and so the wino sang sweet. Why am I in this environment? Life can seems all put together when deep in the hills of northern California. They can see underwater with guerilla warfare the first form of stirring up the pot. It is my birthday today, October. It is amazing how much a baby, sense and sensibility, the fox, Henry IV, when I enter a room, maybe I should destroy everything I have. Fewer choices, higher costs as the rapid rise of BVC funding views from second story windows in the end of all confusion. Amazing street signs in the Akihabara. The people in B. are queasy. They, beautiful people, surround and my deer crossing into the yard in calm repose sensation “It’s Koala tea leaves, eh?” Over the ridges of Eternity I will be his matted hair, depends in thick necessity, is my mother. Li Po, ah happy bee! How boldly dost though try. Juror removed in standoff trial. Jurors, others say, government overreached. United Kingdom Central Banker faces backlash compared to a running horse. What the flustered old dog barks and, “She got gordo already.” “Ladies and gentlemen I’ll have you stand.” When the bright sun his radiant brow the paths of this world are tortuous. Nazim Hikmet and a strange, hot desire. The wind is your own.
A familiar deja vu flashing daily images
One million men across the country, eyes rolling, thinking of you – With disease,
A shining light reaches a dark mirror, hidden past crooked branches in the forest – Whose fingers peeled the scalp of a flying witch, and held her hair loosely by the nail.
A hound there, led by his master, watches the navy sky tirelessly
While gracious hunter peers past overgrown eyebrows.
“Where have you been?”
You know, strolling down the highway, wandering mountain roads; alone. Scanning the horizon where the range bumps into sky. My destination volcanic groves of sharp stone singing like a bird, smoke coming from my nose without missing the ecstasy of fresh air, almost flying across the land. Imagining my death and proud of the blues in my bread. I’ve alighted golden steps, a white light above my head. I’m lost now and never going home.
Of course when I got to paradise it was the evergreen forests of Oregon and the coyote was screaming across plains in the night. I heard steps breaking needles and sticks. After the frights of night passed the sun rose over the snow-capped mountains – not far from ol’ Jack’s footsteps, not far from Three Finger Jack – in wonderful folds Of pink and yellow, and I saw the billionth sunrise over Indian Earth. I found my home close to the ground and I’ve appeared just in time.