My body forcefully took charge last night and especially today. I can't disregard the power with which it consumed itself, threatening an imminent demise that occupied my panicked thoughts. Luckily, the remedy remains true, would not leave me in such a tortured state. It gave me dreams and plied the beast. I will not soon forget these ravishing. Nor will I be ignorant of their purpose.
As glass slowly creeped back to sand,
And a dark shade excused itself from our land,
I began to see the world as it showed itself to me,
And immediately removed myself to an adventure at sea.
My days flew by like ungraspable dreams,
The actions that occupied me were hollow, it seems.
At the end of my journey, when little had ended,
I fell into company with a fellow who tended,
At times to romanticize his life,
Attiring the glory and demonizing strife.
By the moment we parted we had quite a time,
But this too must go, and I'd begun my next climb.
Staring into her heart, he was suddenly frightened, shocked by the clarity of his "vision". Such things were powerful for him, and they would affect his entire world in very profound ways. As he turned again to his drink, he was further amazed at how the vision remained prominent, and was acutely aware of her wishes - that he could return.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
2-5-93 Hey, explain this discrepancy. ..ook.
Unlike the volume of a beast, the soul occupies no set relief. Take it from the maze, interest to leads by gaze. Evolving a certain sort, his writings begin to report, unprose, ahead of time, truth lies an ugliness enshrined.
Play a coastal scene,
Tear a fissioned dream.
Bring the back forth to light,
Why not think of souls alight?
A fellow in a creed unseen
Drinks deep with my every gleam
of eye, and so, upon night's end,
we've found some bitter lover-friend.
Here's a poem to my sight of un-dream
and follow passions to the obscene.
As towers loomed, cranks boomed, and drilling into the earth continued, his torrid gaze alit now on the first crest, now on the third. He's a man of many gazes, and what he writes in his novels is a scanty sort of script. What we discern from such frolics is a deep sense of universe and our unending continuance in such. Open wide the circumference sky. Ub!
Play a coastal scene,
Tear a fissioned dream.
Bring the back forth to light,
Why not think of souls alight?
A fellow in a creed unseen
Drinks deep with my every gleam
of eye, and so, upon night's end,
we've found some bitter lover-friend.
Here's a poem to my sight of un-dream
and follow passions to the obscene.
As towers loomed, cranks boomed, and drilling into the earth continued, his torrid gaze alit now on the first crest, now on the third. He's a man of many gazes, and what he writes in his novels is a scanty sort of script. What we discern from such frolics is a deep sense of universe and our unending continuance in such. Open wide the circumference sky. Ub!
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
2-11-93 Thu..... thu ..... Thursday.
Lack, oh, lackey. Unable to respond to certain jibes, my synthetic other crumbles against an unbalanced onslaught. After certain truths have been covered, when a whole word has been built around the burial mound of the real, then the open area upon which my mind considers is a dread to the last, last credo. Help the holy. Begin to dream, for what you see awake, is what you get.
Make a small satchel for myself, dark and confining, impenetrable to the eye, and carry me about, so I may never see these things again, and they may never see me. I'm tired of experiencing.
Where's my time?
Blowing across the days,
Enwrapped in a confining daze,
Runs about the brittle maze,
His hopes, his appeals.
But deep within a caverned hall,
Triumph like a train doth call,
And though his thoughts by far do fall,
Beneath the churning squeals.
Prepare a shoddy grave,
For penchants holy, yet to save,
And under passion's parries he reels.
And as the ands trickled out, his obscure sense of writing flew down each page, attached and undistinguishable from the original. Prays God.
Make a small satchel for myself, dark and confining, impenetrable to the eye, and carry me about, so I may never see these things again, and they may never see me. I'm tired of experiencing.
Where's my time?
Blowing across the days,
Enwrapped in a confining daze,
Runs about the brittle maze,
His hopes, his appeals.
But deep within a caverned hall,
Triumph like a train doth call,
And though his thoughts by far do fall,
Beneath the churning squeals.
Prepare a shoddy grave,
For penchants holy, yet to save,
And under passion's parries he reels.
And as the ands trickled out, his obscure sense of writing flew down each page, attached and undistinguishable from the original. Prays God.
2-1-93
Ha! Fooled ya! Right on top of it, me boyo, me boyo. Though, it is mmmMonday, after all. It's a small World, have a duff. Hard to do this scripto thing, what's to be further said? Little.
Layer upon layer they stand,
Isle after aisle arranged between sand
And sea. A sight for the mystery,
A question for the ages, a dim history,
What lay beneath the tombs,
and for whom's unfortunate dooms,
were they cast there? Why,
there is no answer anymore. Try
to think back, and there's only,
a shaded memory, alone, not lonely,
and it gives forth no clues.
A more tragic thing to lose,
Is unthinkable, something above
this wonder we suffer. Love
a force, and it will take
such things, and leave you in the
Wake.
Up.
Layer upon layer they stand,
Isle after aisle arranged between sand
And sea. A sight for the mystery,
A question for the ages, a dim history,
What lay beneath the tombs,
and for whom's unfortunate dooms,
were they cast there? Why,
there is no answer anymore. Try
to think back, and there's only,
a shaded memory, alone, not lonely,
and it gives forth no clues.
A more tragic thing to lose,
Is unthinkable, something above
this wonder we suffer. Love
a force, and it will take
such things, and leave you in the
Wake.
Up.
1-31-93 Another Weekend
Ate the damn time right up. At least I was alone and at peace for a while, allowed to wander whatever gardens I chose. One let down though. Ah, lady luck, where are ye, and who's your favorite bass player?
The project remains mean and picked-at like a much-too-old delicacy for a bird, troubled by its symbolism, yet deflected by its stench. Ooh, that was kind, that last one.
Here's the scoop: Another month, then, famous last words. Fuck, who needs the shit? Am I right? Yea, brother. Don't be dreamin' 'bout my sweet sugar. Yuck, yuk.
She walks by
A red, red bag, with it in hand,
as red as anything, Exotic for sure,
Shouts out like a flag, Some foreign land,
Flapping and waving. Beautiful and serene
it gave birth to a jewel
Hair like coal yet eyes so green,
To the flames 'neath my eyes
she gives sweet fuel.
The umbrella dropped to the ground and was immediately swept across the lot, as if it had somewhere to go, and soon. Hopefully it would not be shunned at the appointment, given the state it was in, it wouldn't be surprising. The poor thing had lost four spines off it carapace and little resembled its former self.
That's why she just let it go, Damn thing. She would shortly be very soaked, but to hell with it all. The scene in that old, used book market had pushed a few delicate buttons inside of her. All she wanted was to get home.
The project remains mean and picked-at like a much-too-old delicacy for a bird, troubled by its symbolism, yet deflected by its stench. Ooh, that was kind, that last one.
Here's the scoop: Another month, then, famous last words. Fuck, who needs the shit? Am I right? Yea, brother. Don't be dreamin' 'bout my sweet sugar. Yuck, yuk.
She walks by
A red, red bag, with it in hand,
as red as anything, Exotic for sure,
Shouts out like a flag, Some foreign land,
Flapping and waving. Beautiful and serene
it gave birth to a jewel
Hair like coal yet eyes so green,
To the flames 'neath my eyes
she gives sweet fuel.
The umbrella dropped to the ground and was immediately swept across the lot, as if it had somewhere to go, and soon. Hopefully it would not be shunned at the appointment, given the state it was in, it wouldn't be surprising. The poor thing had lost four spines off it carapace and little resembled its former self.
That's why she just let it go, Damn thing. She would shortly be very soaked, but to hell with it all. The scene in that old, used book market had pushed a few delicate buttons inside of her. All she wanted was to get home.
Friday, May 24, 2013
1-28-93
It was early on when we began to perceive the cycles. It was when we were quite young. We were able to spot the circular tracks that continued repetitively throughout our time here. We began to distinguish symbols that manifested themselves for the periods. They began to signal the oncoming bliss, hardship, or wrestling with the self. We began to understand what was to follow was more of the past's example. We would curse the signs of bad times and celebrate the hints of a future good.
When we finally wizened, it's hard to say when, we celebrated all of the signs, signals, and symbols, good or bad inherent. That was when our respective fathers came to us and told us. They explained how all of this was easily taken away from some by others. We were told to never hold too tightly to these strong, inner links with the symbols of god about us.
It was easy. As soon as they had said it, we were all very aware. It was a test, a crossroads. We each understood that those who would rob us of such inclinations were those very men, withered and untrue, who sat before us, and began to weep.
When we finally wizened, it's hard to say when, we celebrated all of the signs, signals, and symbols, good or bad inherent. That was when our respective fathers came to us and told us. They explained how all of this was easily taken away from some by others. We were told to never hold too tightly to these strong, inner links with the symbols of god about us.
It was easy. As soon as they had said it, we were all very aware. It was a test, a crossroads. We each understood that those who would rob us of such inclinations were those very men, withered and untrue, who sat before us, and began to weep.
1-27-93
A shadowed figure hovers before my vision. A small, bone hand beckons to him. Me. Who is this tyrant who calls my very name, addresses me as if a friend? Such sweet words of enticement, what can I do but succumb? Who, who, who 'tis it now, what is the moniker of this terror form? 'Tis sleep, death's younger brother. Yawn.
A pasture beyond the sunset,
within which dwells a special soul,
Never to any has yet,
Shared his den, his home, his bowl.
This harried, relaxing sort,
Dreams by day of sailing long,
Passing not one pleasured port,
Leaving each no less than strong,
And as his head rests
Upon thicket or mound of hollow,
Starlings forget their feathered crests,
And into the night, they follow.
The sandwich was nearly gone when I got that familiar feeling. It was more familiar at this particular time, for I seemed to be once again passing through a stage of ill-ease. At least, as far as my gut was concerned. Anything more than a mouthful or two, and my body called my thoughts into question, and harsh scrutiny.
A pasture beyond the sunset,
within which dwells a special soul,
Never to any has yet,
Shared his den, his home, his bowl.
This harried, relaxing sort,
Dreams by day of sailing long,
Passing not one pleasured port,
Leaving each no less than strong,
And as his head rests
Upon thicket or mound of hollow,
Starlings forget their feathered crests,
And into the night, they follow.
The sandwich was nearly gone when I got that familiar feeling. It was more familiar at this particular time, for I seemed to be once again passing through a stage of ill-ease. At least, as far as my gut was concerned. Anything more than a mouthful or two, and my body called my thoughts into question, and harsh scrutiny.
1-26-93
Finally, contact was established. But, again, the day was lost within itself, it fails through its progressions to define itself, to give light to that which is of more worth within the whole.
Conflict today: banal and stupid. Someone must always be caustic, always needs to attempt to bring the viewer down. Like a pouty child, he aggravates to no end. Shut up, take it easy, relax, you don't have to compete, to be on par with the fast ones. But you'll never stop trying to place yourself, to struggle to the top of whatever withering heap you need to straddle. Count me out.
Winds chased the old car across fields,
Somber birds made their way through the dry sky,
As the searching continues, it merely yields,
That the goal has moved beyond the eye.
The sun falls to its destined repose,
And the moon hides this night,
On and on for miles it goes,
Searching out a wrong to supplant this right.
And a dark cry explodes out,
While the headlights dance about,
Trusting their solid beams,
to hands of truly simple means.
As we come closer to the edge, the static, tangible edge, we begin to disliken our course to those around us, we can never be the same. My journey had nothing to do with her, really. Just me.
Conflict today: banal and stupid. Someone must always be caustic, always needs to attempt to bring the viewer down. Like a pouty child, he aggravates to no end. Shut up, take it easy, relax, you don't have to compete, to be on par with the fast ones. But you'll never stop trying to place yourself, to struggle to the top of whatever withering heap you need to straddle. Count me out.
Winds chased the old car across fields,
Somber birds made their way through the dry sky,
As the searching continues, it merely yields,
That the goal has moved beyond the eye.
The sun falls to its destined repose,
And the moon hides this night,
On and on for miles it goes,
Searching out a wrong to supplant this right.
And a dark cry explodes out,
While the headlights dance about,
Trusting their solid beams,
to hands of truly simple means.
As we come closer to the edge, the static, tangible edge, we begin to disliken our course to those around us, we can never be the same. My journey had nothing to do with her, really. Just me.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
1-25-93 Brigham Kicked a Prairie Dog....
So on and on an on, se a hop ditty de dop, de-dop-de dop. Again, into the great wide spaceo, oh, oh, dreamo. Turn away from the simple, and you've lost about 2/3rds of life itself. Within the confines of what may be blazè you find a powerful set of eyes with an intent truth about them. The fact that they have to be torn from you attests to the travesty of day out, day out. Lookin' to get in. Those eyes show part, I've got to be a king of more than Glances. Tear the truth from out your days, and soon will be a comforting haze. Dream, dream.
Hard, cold, like a heavy burden,
This floor tells me of its soft respite,
Down again, between unpainted lines,
Tell me about bats that don't exist,
rely on truth other than fact,
Perhaps vice versa,
But only one is sure,
That an end is nothing,
Meaning: everything.
She dreams in one dimension. A past is nothing more than a picture of something experienced or not. A simple little world is what she needs. I can abide only by avoidance, my world being subsumed in newness.
Hard, cold, like a heavy burden,
This floor tells me of its soft respite,
Down again, between unpainted lines,
Tell me about bats that don't exist,
rely on truth other than fact,
Perhaps vice versa,
But only one is sure,
That an end is nothing,
Meaning: everything.
She dreams in one dimension. A past is nothing more than a picture of something experienced or not. A simple little world is what she needs. I can abide only by avoidance, my world being subsumed in newness.
Monday, May 20, 2013
1-24-93
Now, that was a long time. Buncha crazy stuff went on there. Saw the man for a few moments. What else, what else. Just kinda went all out Bingo, if that means something to you. I've got to get it together. I was doing OK there for the beginning. Getting tired early.
Eugene's embarrassing Armpit.
A place you'd never want to go,
In fact, they just don't want you there.
A forbidden zone to life
In general.
Runaway next door,
Eugene's cool.
He knows it's bad,
What's going on over in
Eugene's embarrassing armpit.
Pick up a sign, symbolize yourself,
bring it over there, and show it off.
I'm on the top of the world,
looking....down on creation,
It's the only explanation I can find,
For the love that I've found
Ever since you've been around.
Your love's put me on the top of the wureld.
Whoops. Forgot to call again. Sooner or later it's all gonna slip away, all the loose ends will just fray out of here. If I could hold on, hold on to something, it still would never be a loose end.
Eugene's embarrassing Armpit.
A place you'd never want to go,
In fact, they just don't want you there.
A forbidden zone to life
In general.
Runaway next door,
Eugene's cool.
He knows it's bad,
What's going on over in
Eugene's embarrassing armpit.
Pick up a sign, symbolize yourself,
bring it over there, and show it off.
I'm on the top of the world,
looking....down on creation,
It's the only explanation I can find,
For the love that I've found
Ever since you've been around.
Your love's put me on the top of the wureld.
Whoops. Forgot to call again. Sooner or later it's all gonna slip away, all the loose ends will just fray out of here. If I could hold on, hold on to something, it still would never be a loose end.
1-20-93
And so comes the inspiration, arriving on tiny feet, amongst the confusing surroundings; they've become cluttered, obscure. Many specifics are lost among the menagerie. The gear-getting is pretty sorry lately. I could be sorry later. Little observations are hardly the stuff of these pages. Though, once they've been read, the mind is able to understand their writing again.
Placed under a clear canopy,
Viewed by the general populace,
at leisure:
A torrid scene plays once more,
And a jeweled glove kisses the floor.
The patrons respond with a roar
befitting an angry soul, really free,
aware of its years amongst shadows,
and its ability to now see,
that a small part of the whole,
doesn't exert force upon the other.
Trapped beneath the bubble,
I sit and wait,
Concerned.
The miles dropped away behind, all of the time it had once taken to span their length but a queer concept now. With a persistent roar and whine, the silver bird carries its common cargo to the other side of the planet of its birth.
Below, far below, beneath what was seen from the beast, was a rolling liquid of fire and metal, a birthplace for such awesome creatures as this. By divine right, this particular one began to roast in its own flames.
Placed under a clear canopy,
Viewed by the general populace,
at leisure:
A torrid scene plays once more,
And a jeweled glove kisses the floor.
The patrons respond with a roar
befitting an angry soul, really free,
aware of its years amongst shadows,
and its ability to now see,
that a small part of the whole,
doesn't exert force upon the other.
Trapped beneath the bubble,
I sit and wait,
Concerned.
The miles dropped away behind, all of the time it had once taken to span their length but a queer concept now. With a persistent roar and whine, the silver bird carries its common cargo to the other side of the planet of its birth.
Below, far below, beneath what was seen from the beast, was a rolling liquid of fire and metal, a birthplace for such awesome creatures as this. By divine right, this particular one began to roast in its own flames.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
1-19-93
So, the mind is like space. Thoughts are the matter of our perception, following certain inherent properties, nyet, rules that govern; like gravity and such as such. What other perception would explain that while brushing my teeth I thought of Christmas shopping one particularly happy year? Explanation?! What?! I thought not.
Opening, ebbing tide,
Eagle and it's wings awide,
Truth follows a misty dream,
A pleasure found in panes unseen.
"Into the night," cried the great.
And so they churned unto certained fate.
Bring pass the barley meal,"
And we fell well into our stack of veal.
A misused chain, obviously. There was no explanation for a matter unto matter. Believe the fresh chef when he spoke unto the massive fishbearer: "Open is the holy, holy, untrue, yet fluidish, train of thought." And so he passed the flock with an eager grin. They, in turn, fell to their knees, belts a-whippin'.
And he walked to the sea, where the fishermen were doomed, and stepped onto the water and immediately danced a jig. His sandals fell to the bottom.
Opening, ebbing tide,
Eagle and it's wings awide,
Truth follows a misty dream,
A pleasure found in panes unseen.
"Into the night," cried the great.
And so they churned unto certained fate.
Bring pass the barley meal,"
And we fell well into our stack of veal.
A misused chain, obviously. There was no explanation for a matter unto matter. Believe the fresh chef when he spoke unto the massive fishbearer: "Open is the holy, holy, untrue, yet fluidish, train of thought." And so he passed the flock with an eager grin. They, in turn, fell to their knees, belts a-whippin'.
And he walked to the sea, where the fishermen were doomed, and stepped onto the water and immediately danced a jig. His sandals fell to the bottom.
1-17-93
It's Been A While
The jungle, the jungle. Entered a little early this week, then end. The Cadre arrived Saturday and continued well into the Lord's shining hours. Well, at least the Cowboys are out shootin' Buffalo again. No response to the prose of the reposed, so it stands. Inspiration is thin now. New old stuff ahead. Hoped stimulus. Can't write the beast tonight. Tomorrow, the focus. That's today, the day of Luna, bright deity. And the tide's turn.
Ghastly in its open space,
A void of zero,
Little to be traced,
An empty, happy place.
It's time to move out
it's time to
reroute,
this railess train all tossed about.
A dream, a dream, a recluse spark
A tale of inside,
A questioned mark,
where began the circular descent: a dip in the dark.
"That could be funny."
He said it in a way that made her want to just get up and leave, or pound his pudgy face in. This was the third, no, fourth time this week that he had belittled her most thoughtful work. She had built herself wise to the possible blows to be dealt, but again and again, she would be devastated. Her foresight was a worthless attempt, she began to accept the storm of emotion he'd evoke.
He was just one of those guys that smarted everything, even the smartest. One step beyond was where he would constantly be. Many enjoyed his company just for the practice, for insight into that little bit beyond their thresholds. She began to wonder at their placidity, when she realized that she loved him.
The jungle, the jungle. Entered a little early this week, then end. The Cadre arrived Saturday and continued well into the Lord's shining hours. Well, at least the Cowboys are out shootin' Buffalo again. No response to the prose of the reposed, so it stands. Inspiration is thin now. New old stuff ahead. Hoped stimulus. Can't write the beast tonight. Tomorrow, the focus. That's today, the day of Luna, bright deity. And the tide's turn.
Ghastly in its open space,
A void of zero,
Little to be traced,
An empty, happy place.
It's time to move out
it's time to
reroute,
this railess train all tossed about.
A dream, a dream, a recluse spark
A tale of inside,
A questioned mark,
where began the circular descent: a dip in the dark.
"That could be funny."
He said it in a way that made her want to just get up and leave, or pound his pudgy face in. This was the third, no, fourth time this week that he had belittled her most thoughtful work. She had built herself wise to the possible blows to be dealt, but again and again, she would be devastated. Her foresight was a worthless attempt, she began to accept the storm of emotion he'd evoke.
He was just one of those guys that smarted everything, even the smartest. One step beyond was where he would constantly be. Many enjoyed his company just for the practice, for insight into that little bit beyond their thresholds. She began to wonder at their placidity, when she realized that she loved him.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
1-14-93
Furst Drapht
Hello Rachel & Shelly, this is Scott, the Communication Arts major, utilizing yet another of the medium I've nearly mastered, alerting you to another: the telephone! My number being 255-2736. You might call to ask such questions as: "How're things? How do you know where we live?" and the ever popular, "What the hell's your deal, anyway?" These are the stuff I'm made of! Enjoy!
The deed be done. We cannot live by plan alone. You must make the future confront you. No more living by the wayside! Confidence is a temporal virtue. You got it or you don't.
Man, if I ever see them again (without response to the above), holy shit! Run, run, run. It's crazy, this life! Kids' stuff!
But there's one I still need to kill. Knock, knock, bother, bother, antagonism is easily squelched when its source is so small. Duh. Duh. KLUMP! Flump!
Among the dreams,
One tall space tells the truth,
Although, it seems,
His eyes are crowded with vermouth.
"These two," he squeaks,
"These you speak of,
They're easily hidden in weeks,
And must be bathed in love.
Anything less is folly."
And he returns to his pipe,
With Rose's red jolly,
and to all a goodnight.
Run with the heard or a good story on the fifth floor.
Hello Rachel & Shelly, this is Scott, the Communication Arts major, utilizing yet another of the medium I've nearly mastered, alerting you to another: the telephone! My number being 255-2736. You might call to ask such questions as: "How're things? How do you know where we live?" and the ever popular, "What the hell's your deal, anyway?" These are the stuff I'm made of! Enjoy!
The deed be done. We cannot live by plan alone. You must make the future confront you. No more living by the wayside! Confidence is a temporal virtue. You got it or you don't.
Man, if I ever see them again (without response to the above), holy shit! Run, run, run. It's crazy, this life! Kids' stuff!
But there's one I still need to kill. Knock, knock, bother, bother, antagonism is easily squelched when its source is so small. Duh. Duh. KLUMP! Flump!
Among the dreams,
One tall space tells the truth,
Although, it seems,
His eyes are crowded with vermouth.
"These two," he squeaks,
"These you speak of,
They're easily hidden in weeks,
And must be bathed in love.
Anything less is folly."
And he returns to his pipe,
With Rose's red jolly,
and to all a goodnight.
Run with the heard or a good story on the fifth floor.
1-13-93
Terror of terror, I can't continue caring, squelch the spelling, what can I do? Two of them, bright and truthful yet, until I see them once more, I am doomed to question. Dear, dear, dream, help me find my Rachel, my Shelly, they've gone off without me, and terror upon terror, I miss them so.
As the last hints of reality slip,
Somewhere life is just plain and simple,
crashed upon twice, a love and a lip,
once a true worship, once a fine temple.
Where is it now? This life, this time
I'm looking for a chance to care for it,
But again I've been led to dreams sublime,
And hoped for much more than this meager shit.
My investments are sound, my attempts true,
Tear your fission from out the bleu,
One little connection, one plus and you're gone,
Here I am, again I'm alone.
Somewhere there is an escape. I can't stay here forever. Someone has an easier way out, someone's been handed a simple dream. Terror and chaos still reign in this world, she's run like a coward from the eagles still alight. Among the dreams we'll find hope. Among the living, none.
As the last hints of reality slip,
Somewhere life is just plain and simple,
crashed upon twice, a love and a lip,
once a true worship, once a fine temple.
Where is it now? This life, this time
I'm looking for a chance to care for it,
But again I've been led to dreams sublime,
And hoped for much more than this meager shit.
My investments are sound, my attempts true,
Tear your fission from out the bleu,
One little connection, one plus and you're gone,
Here I am, again I'm alone.
Somewhere there is an escape. I can't stay here forever. Someone has an easier way out, someone's been handed a simple dream. Terror and chaos still reign in this world, she's run like a coward from the eagles still alight. Among the dreams we'll find hope. Among the living, none.
1-12-93
Still, a single casement of my dream remains unseen. Sometimes there is no breaking through, only the desire to do so. The opening may never exist for us, what then? Hope and hope again. It's all prose, it's all poetry. Carefully I must take care of this following time. I have hope, I must retain said.
Opened through a starlit window,
A shadowed form breezes past,
Both feather and fur it doth show,
From Phoebus' flamed molds 'tis cast.
No terror precludes its attempt,
No narrator tells of his intent.
A casual heart is caught, new and unaware,
And only wishes for an ancient past despair.
Sometimes the voices in the night,
Will sing sweet treats to the soul,
But this one creeps in blight,
Playing man's every role.
After finishing the duck, Harry moved on, past the greens, past the potatoes, and found himself surrounded by pasta. Not in a wild dream had he ever touched such ecstasy.
As she watched her spouse, Loretta knew that only one thing could hold her sanity, only one thing, and that was an escape. The opportunity was there now, she need only follow through. If it was a back door that she needed, then she had it all. Escape to dreamland, that's what she'd title her next column, years from now when the world was on her side.
Opened through a starlit window,
A shadowed form breezes past,
Both feather and fur it doth show,
From Phoebus' flamed molds 'tis cast.
No terror precludes its attempt,
No narrator tells of his intent.
A casual heart is caught, new and unaware,
And only wishes for an ancient past despair.
Sometimes the voices in the night,
Will sing sweet treats to the soul,
But this one creeps in blight,
Playing man's every role.
After finishing the duck, Harry moved on, past the greens, past the potatoes, and found himself surrounded by pasta. Not in a wild dream had he ever touched such ecstasy.
As she watched her spouse, Loretta knew that only one thing could hold her sanity, only one thing, and that was an escape. The opportunity was there now, she need only follow through. If it was a back door that she needed, then she had it all. Escape to dreamland, that's what she'd title her next column, years from now when the world was on her side.
Friday, May 10, 2013
1-11-93
The future holds a dark spot for me, beware! Everything is alright, kinda bright. Wednesday, that's the day. Maybe. It's nice when, not one, but two angels descend from the heavens to give me that light. Oh, child, 'twas nice. Lovely, lovely. They wanted me to walk with them. They want to see me again. They. They? Yow! Keep moving, keep active. Everything on vacation is better that way.
As the wary flakes make their way,
down to the ground, awaiting the day,
They mass upon each other, hectic yet true,
'Till the sky alights with a greyish hue.
A blizzard, they said, starting tonight,
One is lucky to fall into the light.
"It was sweet," he said, "nothing pushed nor hoped,
Simply to our respective blocks we sloped."
His smile and wink show true heart,
These two with him recognize it as they part.
He has something nice, new, different for them,
They both recede, remembering, hoping to see again,
his bearded face, familiar in a sense,
the laughter he brought carries them through the
flakes, now dense.
The tunneled light was dimmer now. They had lifted their hearts so high when they had first spotted it. Now they held on to hope, uncompromising. They continued down the path they believed. They hoped and hoped it would be as they dreamed. But one among them began to fall into what was known as reality to some. He turned back, and doomed them all.
As the wary flakes make their way,
down to the ground, awaiting the day,
They mass upon each other, hectic yet true,
'Till the sky alights with a greyish hue.
A blizzard, they said, starting tonight,
One is lucky to fall into the light.
"It was sweet," he said, "nothing pushed nor hoped,
Simply to our respective blocks we sloped."
His smile and wink show true heart,
These two with him recognize it as they part.
He has something nice, new, different for them,
They both recede, remembering, hoping to see again,
his bearded face, familiar in a sense,
the laughter he brought carries them through the
flakes, now dense.
The tunneled light was dimmer now. They had lifted their hearts so high when they had first spotted it. Now they held on to hope, uncompromising. They continued down the path they believed. They hoped and hoped it would be as they dreamed. But one among them began to fall into what was known as reality to some. He turned back, and doomed them all.
1-10-93
An Odd Set of Waking Dreams
She was in one before, also, I can't say what. The second - she and her man were involved in some type of game, they were in a cage or box. I could see them through one wall, and I must have said something. She came over and spoke to me, sorrily of course. She was large. I wish. The third - It was like Hamilton St., sloping down, I was seated at a great, round table with many I didn't know. We were playing cards outside, in the street, the snowy street. The cards were falling off of the table and down from me, I bent to pick them up. Then, at the bottom of the hill I saw her. She walked to the edge of the intersection with a red bicycle. She turned around and got on. As she passed, she looked up. I waved. She didn't. But I'm sure she saw me. I was wearing my black hat. This happens after I tell myself I will forcefully push her out of my conscious thoughts when she is in disruptive, damaging form. Now she is elsewhere. Like life itself, my mind is twofold.
I can't help but think,
what you may be doing.
I can't help but write,
just one sappy poem about it.
I wish I could know what your days may be like,
and that from there I could speculate.
If only a reference were there,
except for the nothing of my conjecture.
You've robbed me of a goddess,
you, hiding in the months,
apart from my sight so long,
but I cannot help but wonder,
I can't help but think.
As I wait for understanding, all I get is wise or otherwise,
and it's all nothing, later.
She was in one before, also, I can't say what. The second - she and her man were involved in some type of game, they were in a cage or box. I could see them through one wall, and I must have said something. She came over and spoke to me, sorrily of course. She was large. I wish. The third - It was like Hamilton St., sloping down, I was seated at a great, round table with many I didn't know. We were playing cards outside, in the street, the snowy street. The cards were falling off of the table and down from me, I bent to pick them up. Then, at the bottom of the hill I saw her. She walked to the edge of the intersection with a red bicycle. She turned around and got on. As she passed, she looked up. I waved. She didn't. But I'm sure she saw me. I was wearing my black hat. This happens after I tell myself I will forcefully push her out of my conscious thoughts when she is in disruptive, damaging form. Now she is elsewhere. Like life itself, my mind is twofold.
I can't help but think,
what you may be doing.
I can't help but write,
just one sappy poem about it.
I wish I could know what your days may be like,
and that from there I could speculate.
If only a reference were there,
except for the nothing of my conjecture.
You've robbed me of a goddess,
you, hiding in the months,
apart from my sight so long,
but I cannot help but wonder,
I can't help but think.
As I wait for understanding, all I get is wise or otherwise,
and it's all nothing, later.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
1-9(?)-93
It's strange how, sometimes, looking down a dark spiral can appear to be looking up. Things go on. I have to live this life now. I have to find the words today. Tonight. The future is a scary place to live. The past is easy and rough. But there remains something tauntingly amiss.
Opened have hearts' minds,
turned back are the old gales,
only disruption now binds
these tellers to their tales.
Heaven help the dream
and too the dreamer of its love,
pushing past the pallid scene,
to find themselves above,
looking upon a banquet feast,
and rapture of voice below,
a feather between pages creased,
begins the thread of points to flow,
again the end is the same,
again the end is the same.
Cautiously the day edged to night, and the glances flickering through the newly kindled flames begin to become longer, and less wary of return. Each soul around that grave circle was a unique and classless type, none the same but all together, for reason beyond reason, for results unquestionable and vast.
Turning a green, hardly-dead stick in the fire, the first one to speak does. He begins with his own story, and is able to follow with common ground to the group. As he unravels the whole, the others are aware of what they are to add, and what they must say. Follow. Follow.
Opened have hearts' minds,
turned back are the old gales,
only disruption now binds
these tellers to their tales.
Heaven help the dream
and too the dreamer of its love,
pushing past the pallid scene,
to find themselves above,
looking upon a banquet feast,
and rapture of voice below,
a feather between pages creased,
begins the thread of points to flow,
again the end is the same,
again the end is the same.
Cautiously the day edged to night, and the glances flickering through the newly kindled flames begin to become longer, and less wary of return. Each soul around that grave circle was a unique and classless type, none the same but all together, for reason beyond reason, for results unquestionable and vast.
Turning a green, hardly-dead stick in the fire, the first one to speak does. He begins with his own story, and is able to follow with common ground to the group. As he unravels the whole, the others are aware of what they are to add, and what they must say. Follow. Follow.
1-8-93
Faster and faster, these hours are like wind in my hands. My questions remain, and I do not doubt that they shall do so for a very long while. I need a new planet.
As the years passed by,
and he watched the world change,
nothing missed his eye,
little was more than strange.
But his own life, that was apart,
It grew and died in larger realms,
Each day history practiced its art,
And it all dropped away with his forest of elms.
A cruel truth could not hide,
instead it paraded about,
telling others how he'd lied,
to himself and those without.
And the sweetness of passed dreams,
was no mere accoutrement to fact,
framed and placed it seems,
in a gallery of God he lacked.
I wrote the same before, and tonight I find I must do so again. The methods of my superiors are horrid. How can one such as I, an idealistic sort, hope to function for their emotionless satisfaction when they surround me with dullness and discomfort? I never know what they wish of me, until they come and take it, or tell me how sad it is that what I've spent so much time on is nothing close to an accomplishment, that it is less than trash. Again I must protest to what may not be there, please, cannot there be a better, less languishing way? Isn't there anyone who sees the bad construction about us? If not, then how long must I..?
As the years passed by,
and he watched the world change,
nothing missed his eye,
little was more than strange.
But his own life, that was apart,
It grew and died in larger realms,
Each day history practiced its art,
And it all dropped away with his forest of elms.
A cruel truth could not hide,
instead it paraded about,
telling others how he'd lied,
to himself and those without.
And the sweetness of passed dreams,
was no mere accoutrement to fact,
framed and placed it seems,
in a gallery of God he lacked.
I wrote the same before, and tonight I find I must do so again. The methods of my superiors are horrid. How can one such as I, an idealistic sort, hope to function for their emotionless satisfaction when they surround me with dullness and discomfort? I never know what they wish of me, until they come and take it, or tell me how sad it is that what I've spent so much time on is nothing close to an accomplishment, that it is less than trash. Again I must protest to what may not be there, please, cannot there be a better, less languishing way? Isn't there anyone who sees the bad construction about us? If not, then how long must I..?
1-7-93 Monkey Sea Monkey Doom
Another day, incompletely wasted, slips right on by. Time to switch medicines. I hold and consume a totally new product and it tastes as old as the hills. Or, grandpappy's hills, anyway.
And every day the world cries, "more."
From door to door,
in the small village,
at the foot of our mountain,
a search goes on.
Each and every parishioner,
is asked the same small questions,
and until one speaks straight,
and looks cockeyed,
will the task remain.
Only one is not concerned,
I talked to him today,
My nervousness was easy to spot,
And his gentle chiding softened its edge.
He is never afraid,
my friend of the black hat,
his smile remains, timeless,
his strong heart does not skip,
at the sound of approaching horses.
Today they found their conspirator,
as they had always planned.
I saw the easer go easily,
And he saw me,
so he showed me the horrid hand,
that destroyed our faith, our band.
Paul woke up in his book again, this time well into evening. His face was bisected by red lines matching the spiral binding of his work. He looked to the words of the past night. Once more he was concerned. Trouble, only trouble.
And every day the world cries, "more."
From door to door,
in the small village,
at the foot of our mountain,
a search goes on.
Each and every parishioner,
is asked the same small questions,
and until one speaks straight,
and looks cockeyed,
will the task remain.
Only one is not concerned,
I talked to him today,
My nervousness was easy to spot,
And his gentle chiding softened its edge.
He is never afraid,
my friend of the black hat,
his smile remains, timeless,
his strong heart does not skip,
at the sound of approaching horses.
Today they found their conspirator,
as they had always planned.
I saw the easer go easily,
And he saw me,
so he showed me the horrid hand,
that destroyed our faith, our band.
Paul woke up in his book again, this time well into evening. His face was bisected by red lines matching the spiral binding of his work. He looked to the words of the past night. Once more he was concerned. Trouble, only trouble.
1-6-93
Haze day. The medicine was there. First jam, pretty nice. Last Song out and about, made it all worthwhile. Not much to report, most missions accomplished. Tomorrow I must do something.
The music plays against his ears,
Proximities are rare guesses,
The crashes and silence that he hears,
Tug at his conscious heart, and he confesses:
"Please stop, yes stop, I will say what is asked,
All you wish to hear placed into your grasp.
I just crave a moment's respite,
From those kind melodies of my youth.
They unbound my flooded eyes, while I sit,
Destroying myself, in your court, with your precious
truth."
A crowd of brown ducks suddenly exploded off of the face of the pond at the same moment I sat down. I had attempted to do so soundlessly, and had imagined my success. But the reaction of the fowl told me otherwise. They slowly rose into the warm air about them and slowly spread themselves into the distance, further down the eastern shore, towards the hillsides.
I then began to undo my bootstraps. They were course and almost brittle from the abuse of the forenight's rain. First the right, then the left, and my feet feel the outside air, breathe deep its pleasant touch. My toes are again allowed movement without confinement.
Heartened by such response, I quickly doff my shirt and trousers, and return to my feet. I leave all of my worldly possessions behind (those able to be left, of course) and scurry awkwardly to the water. And, lo, my fowl, once startled, now return, secure.
The music plays against his ears,
Proximities are rare guesses,
The crashes and silence that he hears,
Tug at his conscious heart, and he confesses:
"Please stop, yes stop, I will say what is asked,
All you wish to hear placed into your grasp.
I just crave a moment's respite,
From those kind melodies of my youth.
They unbound my flooded eyes, while I sit,
Destroying myself, in your court, with your precious
truth."
A crowd of brown ducks suddenly exploded off of the face of the pond at the same moment I sat down. I had attempted to do so soundlessly, and had imagined my success. But the reaction of the fowl told me otherwise. They slowly rose into the warm air about them and slowly spread themselves into the distance, further down the eastern shore, towards the hillsides.
I then began to undo my bootstraps. They were course and almost brittle from the abuse of the forenight's rain. First the right, then the left, and my feet feel the outside air, breathe deep its pleasant touch. My toes are again allowed movement without confinement.
Heartened by such response, I quickly doff my shirt and trousers, and return to my feet. I leave all of my worldly possessions behind (those able to be left, of course) and scurry awkwardly to the water. And, lo, my fowl, once startled, now return, secure.
1-5-93
1st day back & I feel like crap. I have many missions today, one of which, no, many of which are getting this pen going full bore. The big project lies dusty and untouched. The other big one also looms low. It'd be a great time to dilly-dally, but I must be tough on myself. But when the medicine kicks in, who knows what will follow.
Standing upon a sunset shore,
alone, but for the memories,
those of things untouchable though touched,
and those touchable yet not in true form.
They are tuned with the waves
each crashing into history with every minute,
another following.
There is a problem,
for those behind are not of the same source,
they are much shallower than the others seemed,
though, upon reflection, those that passed,
appeared less than what they now consume.
She scatters her feet amongst the dew-drenched grass, her golden, tawny hair waving in her own breeze. Her delicate white gown is billowing its ghostly self in the strong moonlight, causing the stars to notice, and dreams to weep. She has a dance of her own, and each step is perfectly tuned to the night's symphony. Now the cicadas intensify their cries and her steps speed themselves.
She has reached the river under a cacophony of crickets and one, lone owl. They have led her steady course to the bank, amongst the tall reeds. Carefully, yet still in dance, she approaches the shore, her smile unwavering.
Finally, she reaches down to the cold water wherein is reflected the silver frosting of the moon, and touches its surface.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
1-3-93
Tomorrow it's back to Madison and whatever fortunes left long ago. These two weeks have been speedy. They have been semi-eventful. When will I return here and where will I go in less than eight months? I yearn for something to hold on to, but life's game is just take, take, take, and soon I will be bare. It's not as if I started off with a lot to begin with.
I don't fear, but I am unhappy imagining.
Ever closer to an edge,
Leaving what wasn't behind,
Torn between what cannot be
And what will.
The present is a side glance,
Here and there again,
Its interests are phantasmal,
Carrying me away.
It is no wonder.
I am tired.
The black feathers scattered into the wind, twisting as they fluttered to the ground. The pattern in which they lie reveals a chance to return. He pulls from his satchel a small pouch, in which he dips his fingers. They emerge caked in white. Slowly he touches them to his lips, his tongue. Then he reaches in again, then pulling out a pinch of it, and places it on the pattern.
It begins to change, to spread and change its tint. Before it stops moving, as if organized by the low wind that pushes across the mesa, it has revealed a shape. It is human. It is female. Its simple form tantalizes his bending thoughts. Here he sees an eye, grey-blue like his home sky, here he sees a breast, simply beautiful. And here are the lips, calling his name: Awakami.
I don't fear, but I am unhappy imagining.
Ever closer to an edge,
Leaving what wasn't behind,
Torn between what cannot be
And what will.
The present is a side glance,
Here and there again,
Its interests are phantasmal,
Carrying me away.
It is no wonder.
I am tired.
The black feathers scattered into the wind, twisting as they fluttered to the ground. The pattern in which they lie reveals a chance to return. He pulls from his satchel a small pouch, in which he dips his fingers. They emerge caked in white. Slowly he touches them to his lips, his tongue. Then he reaches in again, then pulling out a pinch of it, and places it on the pattern.
It begins to change, to spread and change its tint. Before it stops moving, as if organized by the low wind that pushes across the mesa, it has revealed a shape. It is human. It is female. Its simple form tantalizes his bending thoughts. Here he sees an eye, grey-blue like his home sky, here he sees a breast, simply beautiful. And here are the lips, calling his name: Awakami.
1-2-93
It's here. The fishless year that will test the boundaries of our individual orafiscosity. Things are moving real slow now. Inspiration is shallow and hard to come by. Again my visions of the future are dark and unkind.
But it doesn't bite like it used to.
Washing towards shore,
A small, red piece of wood,
From a ship no more,
Speaks as it should
Of a tame sea gone mad,
A crew too valuable to bear,
A captain little less than a lad
And a destiny too sorrowful to share.
Be happy to know alone,
That this scrap of past,
To mine eyes like a beacon shone,
And allowed me one last gasp.
Ghosts inhabit the streets now. Anyone foolish enough to emerge from their hiding is immediately set upon by the past, and so no one does. My lair is a dark, cold basement and my respite is a solitary one. The creatures that once dwelt here are gone now, dispersed into the nether realm by none other than myself. A place to hide is a valuable thing these days. And since there is no conceivable future left for the likes of us living, our very existence is a self-mockery, and our desperation to hold on a bitter comedy of madness.
But those former residents, those makers and dwellers of this home, if they have any link to their past and this world, well, then they know where I am. And after they search me out they will scare me into joining them.
Oh, cursed space.
But it doesn't bite like it used to.
Washing towards shore,
A small, red piece of wood,
From a ship no more,
Speaks as it should
Of a tame sea gone mad,
A crew too valuable to bear,
A captain little less than a lad
And a destiny too sorrowful to share.
Be happy to know alone,
That this scrap of past,
To mine eyes like a beacon shone,
And allowed me one last gasp.
Ghosts inhabit the streets now. Anyone foolish enough to emerge from their hiding is immediately set upon by the past, and so no one does. My lair is a dark, cold basement and my respite is a solitary one. The creatures that once dwelt here are gone now, dispersed into the nether realm by none other than myself. A place to hide is a valuable thing these days. And since there is no conceivable future left for the likes of us living, our very existence is a self-mockery, and our desperation to hold on a bitter comedy of madness.
But those former residents, those makers and dwellers of this home, if they have any link to their past and this world, well, then they know where I am. And after they search me out they will scare me into joining them.
Oh, cursed space.
Monday, May 6, 2013
12-30-92
It's coming! It's near! It's going! Let's cheer, drink beer, and confront the surprised fear where it sits, patient and foolish enough to think we have no idea where it has planned to ambush us. This year.
Where's the cheap, boxed wine? Our conversations range: metaphysics, philosophy, economic disaster talks. All wrapped, wrapped in a reflective bag, giving bad blood to bright tupperware glasses, no larger than the drinker's hand. Ah, it's like the garden of Athens. We've come fullllll circle. Only it's not so flashy in the future, we'll look back and see it as ridiculous if not reckless in fashion. But it's all like that, dear, it's all like that.
Generate the good now, secure it to the present, hold fast to the images, the sounds, expressions, and movement. Save it all in a little brown book so some day the past can walk among us, dead, animated, and slightly disturbing.
Echoes spread through the hall,
The columns pushed them about,
Until they were able to die amongst,
The marble.
The sounds were of clashing irons,
Grunting and pained outcries,
And finally, a loud and dubious laugh,
Straight from the soul's gullet, dark,
It stained the very walls with its plague,
The mosaics were altered,
To depict now the hound as dying,
Now in the jaws of the great dragon,
Its coils revolving down clear to
Pluto's realm, where this home's master,
now found his sorry self.
Misery.
Tangent #3478
Where's the cheap, boxed wine? Our conversations range: metaphysics, philosophy, economic disaster talks. All wrapped, wrapped in a reflective bag, giving bad blood to bright tupperware glasses, no larger than the drinker's hand. Ah, it's like the garden of Athens. We've come fullllll circle. Only it's not so flashy in the future, we'll look back and see it as ridiculous if not reckless in fashion. But it's all like that, dear, it's all like that.
Generate the good now, secure it to the present, hold fast to the images, the sounds, expressions, and movement. Save it all in a little brown book so some day the past can walk among us, dead, animated, and slightly disturbing.
Echoes spread through the hall,
The columns pushed them about,
Until they were able to die amongst,
The marble.
The sounds were of clashing irons,
Grunting and pained outcries,
And finally, a loud and dubious laugh,
Straight from the soul's gullet, dark,
It stained the very walls with its plague,
The mosaics were altered,
To depict now the hound as dying,
Now in the jaws of the great dragon,
Its coils revolving down clear to
Pluto's realm, where this home's master,
now found his sorry self.
Misery.
Tangent #3478
12-29-92 - "And the beet fritter goes on and on and.."
Old Man Winter nabbed us last night, forced us to dwell and dawdle amongst the walls. There was a close-shaven mutiny that came of naught. The Colossal Lozenge Heads, being the fanatics of the time, evoked the still-warm spirit of Clam before falling to the floor. Example: "Seize the keys." (spoken to the Bull, Spartacus) "Drive the moment." & "Car, pay, dee...um."
Ran into Keiffer again. Rude dude, deserves a recheck, dig? Ugliness. Again the common strength symbol threw us together to stare at each other's absurdities. Again, we could only think of those women, the ones we shared that sign of strength with and how they were, in the end, stronger than we'd like. Sheeet.
Pulling on his last shoe the clerk returned to the inventory. For seventeen days he'd been looking at those damned boxes, damned because they were unlabeled. The fact that they were stacked thirty feet high and covered the entire 1,200 square feet of the warehouse invaded his dreams at night and caused the strange, yellow tint to his eyes.
He opened another lid. Inside the box, about 4 feet square, was a tin contraption. Without touching it he examined it from all angles. He finally decided that it was a bizarre merry-go-round, it being round from above, and tin eaves hung down from the top piece, painted red with gold trim. Beneath was a space taken up by all forms and colors of something he could not distinguish. Sticking out from amongst these at odd intervals were long metal poles that each ended in a dark, geometric shape. There were five of them in all, one a sphere, another a cube, a pyramid, and two unfamiliar shapes with strange configurations of sides and corners.
He snapped his pen out and wrote in his notebook: "B5498 - Junk." He looked at his watch. It was only 8:30.
famous, Famous
Ran into Keiffer again. Rude dude, deserves a recheck, dig? Ugliness. Again the common strength symbol threw us together to stare at each other's absurdities. Again, we could only think of those women, the ones we shared that sign of strength with and how they were, in the end, stronger than we'd like. Sheeet.
Pulling on his last shoe the clerk returned to the inventory. For seventeen days he'd been looking at those damned boxes, damned because they were unlabeled. The fact that they were stacked thirty feet high and covered the entire 1,200 square feet of the warehouse invaded his dreams at night and caused the strange, yellow tint to his eyes.
He opened another lid. Inside the box, about 4 feet square, was a tin contraption. Without touching it he examined it from all angles. He finally decided that it was a bizarre merry-go-round, it being round from above, and tin eaves hung down from the top piece, painted red with gold trim. Beneath was a space taken up by all forms and colors of something he could not distinguish. Sticking out from amongst these at odd intervals were long metal poles that each ended in a dark, geometric shape. There were five of them in all, one a sphere, another a cube, a pyramid, and two unfamiliar shapes with strange configurations of sides and corners.
He snapped his pen out and wrote in his notebook: "B5498 - Junk." He looked at his watch. It was only 8:30.
famous, Famous
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