The bird was strangely silent. dead. hell is tomorrow. Today is coming to tomorrow. Each syllable. is deliberate. I can do nothing. hatefully. that’s uncontrolled. or. I can do nothing. with hate. I could stick my finger. in a rotten deer. I have stuck my finger. in today. Each thought. brings a bitter tension. which is me, restraining. trying the hate in knots. I have crushed the juicy roach. that was crawling in my clothes. with my thumb. I am not mad. I will not be mad. to hate.
April 1971