Bring to bear a titled flair for the needy. Happy to do unto others, there's anything you want inside the cabin. Hearing the words come as they do from the plain little box, he opened his mind to the page. Hope upon hope poured from a dark fountaining pen. Every letter as itself only could be, looking nothing like those before, like anything at all.
Maybe life is short, as they say,
maybe as short as a single day,
perhaps as short as one mere week,
or short as ten, twenty years in a heap,
as short as the distance from here to there,
as short as the bridge, so you beware,
shorter than the breath inside your throat,
or those memories upon which you dote.
Wrap them all up and put them away,
so you can be ready, ready to say,
"life is short" in the end.
After the potato, there's nothing in the stew. After we had no stew, we sprang at you.
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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