Like makeshift passion: wind, untameable, told in golden entrails, seeping truth, hold fast, don't dream. In the flesh lies flight, in the flight: God.
Has, have the will, begin against heavy roads, sopping the energy, given freely by rampaging, roaming mists of unwary, underpinning dream lives, take for granted something on a page, a page in a book, call it your own little joke: Explode onto the joke, take it by storm, reduce its talent to energy, frenetic laughter, love, burn into light, above.
Take hold, hold.
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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