To James

This makes me want to scream goosy wailing froth cakes.
Peel the feet sores and show the rotting habits of grandfathers fathers civil obedience.
The universe doesn't mock the open crying river or the dusty floor so why is your house so neat, your manners so cutlery beef. Your breath so minty mercedes meek. The swelling capillaries of hidden scents lie with naked horses. The frowning second of the upper fore head, shinning a light on the frolicking winds of masturbating glory. The sandy swelling pull of gravity grips your clay and takes you out into the middle of your blood. Here you look back and see how far you've come. No need to hitch hike, ticket bust, you are always pulled somewhere. Even the black hole has a name and you are always the named nameless couch where god sits. God and his cheeky goodwill chasing super nova and clustered perfumed rings. The vision is too broad for ant hunts. Keep building your dimension, soon you will see that the breath is a dot where the reed sleeps and blows gently through the high water holes of unblocked bliss.