After a thriftful day behind the rototiller, my man edged across a fathomed pit of rottweilers and makeover artists of the third renaissance. Having clutched a fine beard to his breast, hauling his mass about like a breakfasted midget-racer, a dance about the fountain does him good. Lengthy man with wire torso, he runs a gamut moon amidst breezy shrubs, which all hide a marmot with sharp clawed hammers.
Blank on the beach, I watch seven hundred nude, beautiful women go by. They smile at me, though I'm necessarily unconscious. If otherwise, there'd be nothing to smile about.
I'd be writing.
Every time you drop
by, something breaks
my heart. Stop your terror
and teasing.
Thanks, Miltie
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