Haberdasher. So among the trees are the words, thoughts, and beacons. Among the leaves are the same, and under the brook, matchless perfection!, again they reside. So when one looks to these things, they must not forget any of these hospices, or they lose sight of from whence permission of language use is given.
Encampment on the Eastern Hill,
buzzing with workers, with talk still.
Enter a disguised beauty, a spy,
who looks for one specific to smote his eye,
And this she does, though unawares,
her target recognizes well, merely stands and stares,
helpless and nearly caught, she flees,
his following yields when she reaches the trees,
and a great howl goes out, one from all the wood,
and she is swallowed away, to his dismay, for good.
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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