im running on a midwest breeze, ahead of the storm, foot over foot supplies the rhythm to circulate to survive.

where once laid a golden arm lies an bottle of wine. lips stained carnelian under a dancing sun supine palms harboring an open flame, irenic lady, irenic lady dressed in white.

still they spurn with tangled talk over a chantry sea, eager mouths and needy hearts, indifferently combined into a perfect storm in a tea cup. the midnight makes me predisposed to sedentary motion. i walked through the mist perceived as a hungry ghost lain to unrest in my mind as if an interlocutor.

how am i to reinterpret the signs.

they say glasses, or spectacles rather.

"ahh, let us praise the double entendre!" they shall say. so i will too.

was it not fulfilled through a dogwood, though?


lennon wore illustrious industry on the bridge of a curiously crooked beak. karma so it goes. but always ashen, and millions of miles away. look what amphetamines, barbiturates, and the like have given us:

tangled talk
iron eyes
hungry ghosts
quixotic impossibilities, upon impossibilities
facilitated apathy
convoluted contrete
sick, beautiful people
charlatans
the human commodity
inconsequential benevolence (causing more quixotic impossibilities)
gadfly sycophants



"they are all lost"read the headline. but the holes were removed for safety. or rather security. but that is what they call it these days.


i ask myself, "how could i have ever been so brilliant?" then i am reminded of the terrible battle i have been more than privileged to engage in with Newton Briggs. somehow competition brings the best out in man. hobbes at once would agree. i have the liberty to survive.

dare i look back at words already written.


and so nonplus prose consumes the rationality of it all.






the world wont embrace you the same with each new day, but thats the peace you keep with the deathbed pace as our coils slowly unwind what were left with to expire.

how life can be kind in its own way.