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from I Wear Long Hair
In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

This one’s black. As outside chance. Also bigger and unruly.
I don’t want to be locked up! I can’t quit thinking  tone
        Notebook hair mood
Doubt or teeth. Truth under fingernail. Tighter interval
      Dirt under
        Don’t eat that! But I am starving.

I forget the taste of Bounty. I could walk on 5th Avenue. I don’t listen to their Snickers. I look up at the Milky Way.

        The same but darker.    No, it’s lighter, cloudy
Then saw    a comet
          The thing about not
          cleaning himself

Girls are supposed to clean. I mean be clean.

          But I am called Hildebrand.
          Unless Holden Brent.
There’s constant changing.

With already five dead books: Oscillator, Ruled Notebook, Unruled Notebook, Flaming Sword, Hildebrand’s Travel Diary

          die tone
so worn out
    I can’t keep
          red thicket

Also my v-neck sweater. It’s grey wool, I lent it to my little brother. Except he took it without asking. And my pants that zip or my maroon nylon jacket that zips like before.

But brother and sister/brother should always share, especially if they exist in the same dimensions.
I unzipped my chest
      I am not sure about the spacing and the timing.

Immanuel is useless here. There is no God here. Wait. Excuse me, what does God mean?

My little brother is named Gregory unless Stevie. Unless he is my friend, like Fredric was Fredrick’s. I.e. Shelley’s was Hugh Dillon’s—but possibly not Holden Lem’s. Ditto Georg Howel was.

Isaak becomes Igor or Gregor or Stefek or Stevie, Fredric becomes Stevie or Shelley, Frederic becomes Stevie or Shirley or Sherrill, George becomes Gyorgy or Georgie or Gregory or Stevie, Gregory equals Stevie, Gregory should be Grigor. No, Grigory.

I don’t know who my friends are. Are there friends? Or only rooms? They have books with names who can befriend you. Only the ones in books or who write them are my true friends and comrades.

A friendship could go down the drain of the sink. Then the drain is slow and clogged as if from lost hairs.

Your big head could sink low onto your weak chest, weigh it down.
Some people are funny and comfortable so the people laugh at them and adore them.
Some people have a system or found one so they are very popular.

I thought, Quit laughing at me. Forget your Aufhebung! I don’t want to be liked anyway.

It isn’t charming when no personal hygiene of the Jesus tits with the halo nipples. He was trans when they sewed him.

The problem is with reason i.e. discursivity

I don’t want to think anymore!

I need to eat. I am starving from a longing

Jeanne D’Arc was given bread and a tower and rhythms with repeats by Robert.

No guards to bring me toast
I am not protected here
She was not protected there
They spied on her through the small hole in the defense

My room is getting very serious like a situational semantics

I never read that book. It was brick red and thick with technique flakes and pump fakes.

Forget the logical machinery, it’s too heavy now that I am weaker. It hurt my wrist’s ambivalence

Weak sex

Hugh lost his Susette. Once I had a Suzanne. Later I had a Liliane. Because they meant the same flower.

She would’ve made me toast.
    I stand up to go eat. I miss my grey v-neck sweater.
There is no first principle but there is a first poem. Is this it?

The desire is to flow like a river or how the ink spills out of your pen. But self-consciousness.

    Two trees on the cover of the French experience:
    self-knowledge and life/eternity.
The question of what is below the I.
Or is the I the basis, first premise or first pain or first poem?

Some notebooks have a line for the subject at the start like Johnni/Felix. This notebook has lines all over but is collage-ruled like French fragments or the rebellious, the remarks go wherever under the cover/hairdo...