there is a dowdy window with spiderweb blossoms and windy holes an old woman nurses on her lap on the corner of 5th Street and Jackson Ave. she is an old seamy woman whose face is furrowed like a featureless October midwest landscape after the corn and soy has been harvested and husked; leaving only faint signs of a pre-existing life. stale and silver eyes stare back but do not answer--not anymore. she stares at the ethereal fixture of a long lost companion adjacent to her, someone the world has forgotten but she and the old oak tree out back have not. a corpse to nurture the living--or barely alive. i say, "hello". she whispers "oh, how long will someone else's sorrow by my joy". "Forever old woman" i say quiet and heavy, trying to veil the weight of the words on her brittle bones and fragile heart worn by decades of a history of sorrow. i swallow the sadness the same. her name was Amelia. i am gently lowered down into a sea of chemicals like a warm and frothy caribbean inlet--like the sea that held me when i was a child living on the island. then mother ocean holds me, and leeches the poison and gray from my worried head. i remember then, i am alive. "what is all this talk of the gray" says the preist living but 4 doors down on my shoulder. i say, "its the city; it's the pollution form the windy city, its lights pour our for miles corrupting the night sky--it makes me wish i was by the sea again, when you look up, you feel as if you are the last person alive". he laughed. it is the subtle awakening to a longing long ago lost between the hands of time. the moon is far today, and i am lying on the sand of a world razed to dust. the old woman forgets my name too.

My mind was so clouded I did not realize the sun was shining over my shoulder, casting my shadow long and dark on the pavement infront of me, almost as if the disparity and gloom pent within my soul was something I would never outrun, never to escape it would always be in front of me, in my way; something that would lead me inexorably for the rest of my life toward some grotesque and vile truth, a skewed image of reality of myself leaving me to question why I am here at all then I realized it. I realized why distraction exists. Why there is entertainment in life. its function is completely paradoxical—it is there to make us suffer, I thought. I think. People waste their lives providing entertainment to the fools, the miscreants, the dregs of society. They themselves are those very imbeciles of fate of a imposed reality so blissfully, ignorantly contrived. Live happy. Make yourself the master you think.they make you think that when you are high on whatever, drunk off of whatever—a pretty lady or an ocean of sunshine it’s the same damn thing. All that joy is juxtaposed with the only truth of man—suffering and death. The more you live the more painful it becomes to breath in and out, to open your eyes in the morning and live the same revolution of monotony. Its all a ruse. Where once was a concrete hope--a passing smile, your beloved’s hand, sleep--is vacated by a cold winter breeze and a setting hitting you from your back in an amber and sapphire January sky that makes you grow small, small, small and insignificant and makes your darkness grow to be a bigger man than you'll ever be. Every day becomes gray like the last until one day you look up and see how it is all for naught, you never noticed that the sun was shining on your shoulder to elucidate the trouble, the irony, the calamity of things, maybe to keep you warm. What a terrible thing to do to a heart. What a good laugh. What are we to do?

The 10th Story

Stale light.
Antiquated and wise, is an image for itself.
It slithers across a wall painted white named beloved.
The irony of locked hands, we are.

Dry and opaque, elusively deceiving.

It percolates through a window as if suspended in time.
It is a hinged reality.

In new york, it is always quiet despite all the damned awful noise.
Streets cluttered in a farrago of colors and static,
texture of life, all gray.

Broad sheer beams, like piercing liquid,
floating,
bending, breaking the distance between animation and slumber,
a curious line drawn in my remote conversation with the illusion of anything material.

Whispering softly,
I come from the sun.
Familiar warmth.
A memorable yet strange friend.
The irony of locked hands, we are.
Thatched ambivalence, layer upon layer of imagery slipping,
precariously daring, defying, the physics of intimacy, a bittersweet farewell elucidated by the juxtaposed circumstance of locked hands.


I do not know my friend.

this year feels good on the lungs. the air is cleaner and more laden with oxygen particles--it makes a man confidant when he has a chest filled with good air--or at least it appears that way. i discovered two potentially great influences in my life, the next influential band on my life and music thanks to a newly uncovered girl who is as charming as witty--a rare find. despite sleepless nights and monotonous living at the basement on the circle i was able to produce a number of promising compositions. one of which i excitedly anticipate its potential and promise. i wish the world well. it seems the pain of prudence and perseverance is the most rewarding source in these hard times.

when you see this i hope it brings about a good laugh, i know you are looking for my flaws, my little mistakes i'd be prone to make when you think i think no one is watching. i have cut myself off from a corporeal identity, that is why no one knew me well when you tried to have acquaintances betray me. but my friends, there is no shadow for an invisible man, no light sheds itself on my shoulder and no dark casts itself in my place. so fill up on detached literature. the wandering mind has but no charted course, and there is no golden path for anyone to take, it is what you create from the luck of a t c and gs binding and mutating ability and nature. did you cover your tracks, the deeper you delve into the well with no shadow the more miserably you will be lost. i am an invisible man.

it takes a long time to blur the white lines you cross and forget the things you heard
Just let me run now, to sweat the dark out of my chest with the trouble that I earned
I just watch the whole world flower into dust, then laugh it off and douse their flaming tongues,