What has he come to say? How long has he held it within, this thing he must now impart? Who is he now, what is to be done?
At the pulpit, the murmuring silence is like a cavalcade of rifting water across a landscape of shallow bowls and short rises. His hands touch the wooden sides of the podium, and an electric, warm charge creeps into his hands, and he realizes what he had forgot, and knows that he has been discovered by one.
But that can wait.
What else need we know,
other than the prattlings of the insane or arcane?
Perhaps it would be best to show
all of us just how to play this little game
that you've laid out, all neat
and simple for the loosest mind,
point out the score that's to be beat,
and hand me the tools for my turn in kind.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment