Making a Machine

Today is a day that I rosin up my bow and gentlely apply it to the strings of my morose viola. My great aunt, my namesake, and my catcher of things is to possibly be pronounced dead today. I sat on the bus in silent tears ashamed that I could not maintain "braveface." Two Ojibwae were on this processional meeting. Never to ride a bus before or again, they now understand the "spirit talk" of the day. Their spirits were strong and the second one had lived long, as long as a winter's night in a bedroom's light. Hibbing was the place to be and that is where the Muenter's had their revelry. I sing to the sun and moon and know that royalty is part of a Godmind telepathy within native culture. It was unknown, until now, that that was the source. I am the voice now and forever more. Sadness abyss in the kiss. Connection of emotion to enslaving entity. Soon that will not be my possibility. Can I be all types of strong with those who do wrong? Yes, infinity. I stay me and am the caring caress of all generations. Aunt Jenn, you are promised to another day. You decide which way, after today, you walk on the Freedom Trail. It is not trial. It is release. We will just see you as the last remaining entity of a strong and virulent royal tree, and you are to be friend to FATHER in the end. Stalin is he, and you will be SPECTOR for me when we need to helpfully motivate and scare black community into making better choices. I, intuitively, know of your liasons, so the deep coco skin and eyes flows through your soul making you a bit hypocritcal at times. That is what you planned to be. Just remember that I did not know and I was here, in the end, to be conservater, and friend. Love me in your pathologic hatred of sheep. hopegod3