The heart land of sweet lilac tubers, where I lay my my naked soma-flesh
in the Eden hidden in the rivers and streams of antiquated book of forbidden estoeric abracradabra puzzles and and fuzzy linguistics.
If I can only know the code of the chords and string quartet of your quintet, in which in my goddess Anne Sexton, the great Beautiful women, who I mourn til I die, where Whitman buries in the lilac court yard adjacent to Lincoln's tomb, I dedicate a verse to you, a daughter of Mary, whom I love, and will alway revere as a terrifyng beauty, who breaks my heart to read her most most revelatory beauty of verse,
of triumphalist sorrrow and joy, but JOY which breaks the heart,-the manic ecstasy of life, which falls into the weariness of living, in which you were a martyr of false patriarchy, but not the truest of which is UBI CARITAS IN RE NOMINE PATRIS!
