Lapsing again into oldtime rhetoric, the lips begot the foul lythargy of crushed action upon dialeptic dream. So, the infinite reach, the space we call non-home, where does the sign tell us how clear and less of matter it is. Nothing is without matter. Damned if I won't create the matter myself, the meaning or symbolism of the most recalcitrant object, bring it to sight.
Over the ridge came a quick, dark coach,
The mares ahead shone like opals afire,
And as the specter withing did approach,
The mere daisies by the road did expire.
Those in the town knew of the plague,
Knew of the rats and the dark cage,
From the town of his name, Prague,
To the playful enrichment of rage.
There was one door, one exit, one entry. It pealed like bells to the eye, amidst the crowded interior, or the bleak, lonely night.
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.
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