Writing Practice, different subject every sentence. Unknown date.

White tigers have always astounded me, but look so plain in zoos. I prefer the orange ones.

Birds are cool, but blue I like better.

Alligators -- bah these are all animals, I have to stop this cycle.

Space ships are large and have blinking lights.

Dew on the grass in the morning lights up like little frosted crystal globes.

The wind here sounds like it's pushing up against a shelter made of plywood & corrugated tin, and makes me think that I'm in a poor Mexican town, hoping for my life that I won't freeze tonight.

A black spider with a yellow zig-zag on its belly hanging on a web, thick & frosty white.

Topics, topics -- they don't have to be nouns, you know -- they don't have to be verbs, or adjectives -- they can be feelings -- under images; and the longer you pull the sentence out the longer you have before the next one.

I see a bridge, with sunlight dappling the surface of the shallow greenish water below. There are steelhead under there, or coho salmon, and it's the mouth of Eagle Creek on the Clackamas.

Mermaid mistresses give juicy, dangerous love.

An arsenic lobster (stolen from Lorca) falls on my head, and I'm black (stolen from Jimenez or Machado) with a diamond inside.

Mowing the lawns of cemeteries -- the hills covered with mist & trees & the mausoleums are on top of the hill to the left.

Spirit folk went through my dreams, always clad as Indians dancing, carrying their loved ones' images, up on stilts with feathers & dead, in their hearts as they travel.

I love: the earth, frogs, women, butts, women with frog butts -- that's K. actually -- and thinking, and being ungrounded, and accepting, and love.

God is: God is a leaf in a stream -- one more try.

God is an autumn leaf under a thin sheet of near-freezing water, washing down a clear Northeastern stream.

God is Heroin, to some I'm sure.

I don't know how much time I've got left so I'll write until 21:00 hrs. -- that's 3 minutes left. My hand hurts, and I feel like I'm writing a bunch of crap, but the school of disembodied poetics keeps coming up, and that's exciting me, because I think maybe it's a sign from the Universe that I should go to School, and I can just see it now, my old bus & T. & maybe fly fishing in the summers, and my arm is burning up, and I don't want to slow down or stop writing or stop breathing, because I've only got a little of it left but my arm is burning off, and I keep holding my breath, and this is all a bunch of crap anyhow. And I sure wanted to end on that last line but a minute lasts a long time when you're in pain.