i've been made and

Make no claim and there. This ragged piece of

talk will go through a few old stages & hopes

to arrive here. Look how dry its skin has become.

Let's get together some night this week then and

sing it. Sing its dryness and toss it fireward. And

make no claim. And there will be a blasted moon

against the shadowy outwardness. Again, outside.

I wasn't listing the words in the piece. I wanted

to climb out of my sin of my skin. Thinking or in

these rags I got from the moon. Watering skyward.