journal

In this chaotic world, people make damaging assumptions about a lot of things. It is my hope that when you read my journal entries, you do not assume that the exact transcription of events has been captured or that I even was involved with what I have written about. I watch people and I wonder about them. I put myself in their shoes and then write as if i were that person and I try to think what they may be thinking. I hope nothing in the following text pushes anyone to any assumptions about my own life except that I enjoy writing and I am a deeply curious person when it comes to life and the experiences it has to offer. That said...... read and enjoy my personal journal. I will post more of these entries each 4 or 5 days, so read them while they are here..... they may be gone sooner than you think.



		A sick night on the way home from the airport. Love, but nobody to share it with. Time, but nobody to spend it with. Ideas, but nobody to implement them with. Running engines that spout diesel fuel hum sad tunes into the thick summer air while not-so-busy travelers neglect to scurry about. The night is quiet and the sky is dark, self conscious stars hide behind a day’s worth of water escaped from the earth’s jealous grasp only to fall again in the form of devilish teardrops: the Papillon of the night.

	About a woman I saw while driving to work. Damsel in distress Rough-bound in unwashed clothes Dew stains dried by the angry sun. She dances to her own music, Writhing her fluid filled crotch in Non-rythmic emotion which just matches The swagger of her dimpled neck And the crisp waves of her once scarlet hair. Her yellow skin and smoke blighted teeth She bares in holy lust at a half man half rodent As he walks away she barks a hardened Curse through the cracked mouth she just can’t clean. And she pretends she doesn’t want to kiss them.

			Last night you made me smile As we laughed most heartlessly Together at hopelessly trapped bar-flies On sticky beer coated wood colored inlay. You made my eyes dance, my feet tap, And my pulse rise. With arachnid lengthy legs You stepped on each man in the room Except for me, whom you implored With insatiable eyes and coy gestures Which you had no business offering. While we chit chit chit chatted, my heart Grew strong and boosted my ego As well as your electric personality. We left with a hug… closeness without sin And so I thank you For everything you shared with me last night.

Upon reading the poetry of Jack Kerouac Heat of August fast approaches with mucous breath of hedonistic demons applying torrential weight of age on the insipid summer of youthful life. Young minds struggle with familiarity yet easily grasp new concepts. These are the last of the poets getting drunk on homemade wine, cheap beer, and liquor from plastic bottles: Absinthe of the now. They are not the last to dance with the green fairy, yet they may be the last to understand its importance in the definition of who they are. Each vomiting, underfed, neo-humorist dances in the night intoxicated on fire escapes and crawling as a child in the coldness of morning clinging to dreams they worshiped years ago in the same position. Damnation of the young, redeeming in spirit for the want of punishment for sins committed yet unnoticed, will arrive slowly. Until eternity… ecstasy in miniscule portions will provide comfort to bone-coddled, elbow riddled torsos drenched in milk sweat to feign warmth as hollow as a needle yet needed as a hug. Eyes deep in sorrowful sockets spark briefly and effort themselves to close eternally.