Page II

We all reside on a celestial body rotating around a gargantuan sphere consisting mostly of hydrogen and gas. At least that’s what I’m told. And as this giant rock gyrates its annual revolution, we experience an environmental change based off of the axis, or better know as obliquity. Temperatures change and most organisms continue their life cycles.

Curiosity beckons, what odds would be on this systematic process malfunctioning. I understand skipping winter this year is improbable, but can the jade pigment of chlorophyll be preserved for just a little longer? I have no need for photosynthesis. Oxygen only helps me breathe.

Self-centered you might say. Don’t look at me. Blame the flux of foliage for its egotism, hibernating away within its metabolic depression. It craves to embellish that distant springtime. Well I opt for tossing wrench into this time and space. I’ve grown nauseous from the dizziness and demand it all to stop. Evidently despite my request, this blue planet keeps spinning its way towards the sun.

Days, weeks, months, years, all organized with human precision. Arithmetic and astronomical calendars attempt to pin-point every detail of our existence. Obsessed with this never ending archive, I feel we have become dependent on the mere thought of passing time. Whatever happened to the idea of eternal youth? Perhaps they finally figured out that immortality is just as useless as the concept of infinity.

To my knowledge, we are the only species to record our own birth dates, “Happy Birthday.” People have been offering me that age old expression all day long. Everybody, excluding one.

Truth is, I don’t care to spend another one without her.

Page III

Could you teach me black magic? Because I know a few people that deserve a good suffering. And if there is a Hell, perhaps they could spend a little time there, if not an eternity. Flames would ignite the fuel of their selfishness as the malevolent spirits watch them burn.

I am no judge and unfortunately morality and ethics are rarely considered common sense. Compassion is not mandatory, nor is punishment. I suppose karma could exist on some surface level. Even scraped off the bottom of the gene pool, which I have always considered a basic form of Purgatory.

For whatever book people may follow, I get it. Men have built their chapels with intense height and I understand the reasons why. They are all very lovely tales and I appreciate the devotion towards sharing optimism, but I’m not about to ask for anyone’s patience. Perhaps I never took my methylphenidate on theological Saturdays.

Don’t you think I want to look at the clouds and see angels? Even now, when a little space has been cleared on my right shoulder. Blue eyes, round face, transparent hair. Kiss the sky stranger, there’s nothing to see here. Nothing but a shatter delusion of what humanity might have been. That percussionist showed little mercy of what’s left of my tired and weakened backbone, like a toneless battered xylophone.

So now is your chance, courter. Disregard our shared denial of the deity, perchance that mythical verse can conjure up one single truth. No need to wallow in the pain and sorrows of this conscience reality anymore. I will summon the durability to absorb this burden just long enough for you to make a swift escape.

Wide glassy eyes, look into mine. I promise you no more sadness.

Page IV

I wrote a letter to a dear friend many years ago. Intentions of this notion are remembered as if yesterday, although the detailed context may always remained out of focus. The solo connection to our past required a final idea, an attempt of communication despite the fact those words would never be read. I sealed the envelope and tucked it safely within his wooden casket shortly after his passing. Eighteen years ago today, the song ended.

Isolation can prove itself somewhat effective, a simple remedy applied to the hardships of human interaction. Could it be the emotional strain of loneliness that leads us to amity? After all, life-spans tend to vary in large distance, but for most, expectancy is statistically greater. Theoretically, a lengthy duration could leave the individual compelled to make closer connections. These infliction are most likely due to the result of phycology, biology and nature. Empathetic ties are created, beauty and laughter are shared, and moments of devastation and desperation are willingly supported.

Upon recent tragedy, safety was feared unattainable. A vital exit could not be achieved. Nevertheless, through the terrifying barricade of shock and disillusion, the transmission of a simple promise was received. Comforting actions and reactions were derived from a few choice individuals. As this rarity flourished, my ideals began the reconstruction of unconditional love, trust and honesty. The devotion towards an immediate sense of urgency has been embedded within my heart and mind, indefinitely. Perhaps it is the guardians fundamental fear of closure that has kept me alive today. Regardless of motive, it is to my wish that the extension of gratitude be considered sincerely endless.

Where the fuck was I eighteen years ago?

Page V

Once dubbed as your pillow, we laid motionless until rejuvenation and slumber. Breathing in, then out. Warmth exchanged, tightly entwined beneath the cathode flashes that illuminate the walls of our apartment.

Now this weary head rests upon your calloused shoulder; long, drawn, bleached white and draped within a relentless starch. Attempting to reassembly my previous visions, these eyes resort to an anemic squint. Questioning if pain is suppressible, begging for last embrace; on sentience decline, the failed puppeteer cuddles close to begin its necrotic convulsion. My body has grown too weak to carry you home.

Imperfect in rhythm, the melodic harmony has little expectation of response. Years of a voice, those sweet nothings in which I always listened and adored, perhaps audibility will resurface. For now, too much to say, and with lips pressed against your forehead, my repetitious monologue can only continue in babbled whispers.

Focused touch of a cradle, brushing the mane of your auburn and pink streak. Texturally it feels consistent. As for the rest, anhydrous and arctic, minus the application of lachrymation. It drips from glassy eyes to yours, washing away the burgundy of stains and bruises. Drenched in liquid, sobbing an ocean moist enough to fill this bright and morbid room. Deep enough for us to both float away.

So let us set sail, projecting shadows upon the reflective sands. Our voyage is at the mercy of my tide, leaving nothing but a long silver trail behind us. Remaining wayward castaways to the far distance, drifting aimless until we both sink like precious lost treasure.

Page VI

The cost of one decaffeinated is the new day rate for the homeless. Their hub connections are often sluggish but temporarily trump the daunting alternative. Complex role reversal of my once dependable shelter has released a bird of passage. Desensitization is perhaps achievable after extreme exposure, but only bearable in minute doses. As procrastination manifests into inevitability, time still insists on passing. If nothing, this nomadic lifestyle has proven I can still exist on a raw molecular structure.

Once that instinctive impulse of protection was rendered a fail, bereavement injected and drafted a vacuous course. Surging through tangled wires, pulmonary and umbilical, expanding grasp and tightening with the clots flow. Escalating pressure forces reanimation of mobility. Dextral limb crosses sinistral, mindless and robotic. Rust deems futile, immune to seize, for this hydroelectric crank abducts solarization from a sleepless sun.

Fresh faces, familiar intentions, flickered glimpses from flipping pages. Natures mold so vast but incomplete. Sunrise, sunset, my physical form wanders into empty wonder.

Page VII

C’e la luna amante. Spread those angelic gifts and soar. Parachute of cargo, grasp tightly upon my tender collarbone and push this mortal through the stratosphere. Dust to clouds from the river of remains; I’ve grown fond of the apsara in you.

Fatigue wound by intoxicated thrust, tracing maps of the uncharted skies. Infinite intelligence proves nothing compared to our pursuit, imbecilic to who is chasing whom. A mere flutter from your winged grace bids all adieu, as we restlessly circle the incandescent moon.

Another safe landing with repeated apologizes. You know I couldn’t have been more efflorescent. My seraph and the initial inquisition, are there any remnants unresolved?

I’ll save the best part for last; and in my retort, no it never has to end.


Over-populated yet so alone. From an ulterior frame of reference, this city reeks of pseudo motive. I witness the grand design snickering in observation, as the excessively labored transform into the immensely medicated. Functional I suppose, but to what purpose? Regurgitating cannibals express undoubted perseverance; perhaps within the recycling of our own wasted consumption lies the true meaning.

All just an alienated and jaded point of view, right? Small matters; that is how the careless expression goes. Well, I know of someone who would have greatly disagreed. Evidence of this has been documented in her secret mouth-to-ear diary. This is no interpretation, it is common physics; all safely locked away within the widowers cerebellum.

Self-pity is often the drug of choice; but once you are finished indulging, may I reflect some of her utter disappointments? So many lead to quick and easy decisions. Shall I expose how she truly felt about your relations or do you prefer a sympathetic stream of white lies? With discretion towards our abstruse journal, I chose the latter.

Well, it looks like the revolvers whirlwind has vacuumed yet another drifter. Aspired to a Russians roulette, you may remain impregnable. Her authenticity withers with me, even after the fifth fortunate click of the unspun trigger.

Impatience dominates, is it my turn yet?

Page IX

Airwaves filled with acoustic vibration guide a drunken stupor, as the disheveled man begins to dance. Eyes closed, arms vacant, extension from his suffocated lungs stretch out into a heart-shaped pose. Spinning uncontrolled across the broken glass; waltzing a mystic silhouette of imagination. The empty corner tolerantly awaits for his staggered return.

Another evening well spent with memories. Joys and mishaps weighed carefully atop the scale of distant chapters. It must be braved, although often risky; especially within the reflection of a double-edged razor.

Melancholia interruption. Curse the cheating whore, for that adhesive bled out in the tub many years ago. Ash spiraled down the motel drain, beside the cigar burning from both its ends. Mourning a life that was never meant to flourish; one million thanks for an equal amount of paths leading furthest away.

But leading where? Off to exile, or so the man thought. Then came along this, a bride of sunshine; and one crinkle of laughter set urgency to close every bar in town. Your gentle company taught this gambler liberation and tamed his tenebrous eclipse.

Each moment savored within a shortened choreography, embodiment pleads for an everlasting juncture. Solo i buoni muoiono giovani. Ineptly, it wasn’t nearly enough time.

Page X

Five days in, resting on three months later. No disrespect in reference intended, I know nothing could lay comparison to the suffering of Auschwitz; for she never cared much for supreme authorities anyway. Surprisingly, the electric was still active. Disgust festers in cogitation of what might be rotting amidst the icebox. Overhauls equal necessity and futons now belong to the kitchen; do you like what I’ve done with the place?

Mingus temporarily placed upon the top-shelf, the early frequencies of Geddy and Geezer take front stage; “her life was saved by rock ‘n’ roll”. A genre congested with lyricists conducting the decisive mood; but far too often instruct the listener how to feel. The repeat button serves an excellent antidote for any bipolar disorder, although metathesiophobia will remain stagnant rather then stable.

Ethanol and nicotine have carelessly superseded all faint scents of feline. Much like Sisyphus, within a disposition that cannot be controlled; only to be contently accepted. Betwixt and between the human condition, I wear my talisman tight and continue copulating this malignant fantasia. Naturally, all personal ventures lead somewhere.

She always cherished the soft mixture of vibrant hues, but sadly we were unable to keep tulips due to the toxicity. Of course wildflowers were a consistent favorite. My initiation began with pink roses; and if you know the spot, you’ll find a makeshift vase fastened to the fence wrapping the corner. Keeping beauty fresh would be the perfect match for her allure and artistry.

Page XI

Witness the corpse of Bonnie Parker; “wherefore art thou Barrow”, spoken with infamous recognition. What costume do you fancy this Hallows’ Eve? A ghoul, a ghost, perhaps a priest of conjuration; frightening all the same, albeit suitable aside this Festival of the Dead.

Samhain furnished with revered saints, begins entrance into another darker half; subsequently marking end to this pathetic harvest. Go ahead, fabricate in celebration; transform into something horrifically abnormal and unordinary. I have chosen a crepuscular shelled creature as my disguise. Holidays will do their worst; a lesson unwisely divulged from this self-proclaimed tortoise.

Basking amidst Anatta, the martyr turtle sets dawdled pace towards a remorseless winter. A husky exoskeleton has proven much stalwart, armored for an otherwise terribly flawed endo. Lost in reverie, heavy footsteps attempt the abandonment of a prematurely aged persona. Weathered to translucent, dilatory journeys embark for burrows of a testudinidae utopia.

Page XII

A brisk alloy from public engines, roll atop the vibrating shuffle; as the high-speed landscape morphs into the next upcoming town. Astonishing feat for a rustic track, all of which so carefully predestined. A simple clockwork guide for a plethora of endless transports, intensely over-relaxed but certainly always on-time. Headway full of gumption, a distant suburbia awaits; patience imperative for a locomotive vessel trapped in hasty lunge.

A holiday exodus served best for the urban masses, the great Manhattan escape, if you will. When skyscrapers shrink and sales pitches grow fainter, the eye candy tends to shift into the more elusive. Damn those vandals in disguise; for I have always been more partial to artistic graffiti over corporate advert. Perhaps its a successful sorcery among the walking demographics that I currently surround.

Revisit again, the final Thursday of November. A moment to reflect back to a perfect family; me, you, and the accompaniment of our six furry children. With all immediate gone, difficulty fares well against the thought of thankfulness.

Upon a much lighter side, an experience of a lifetime entwines internally within my heart; arguable to which some have never felt such bliss. Timeline at complete disregard, mere moments compared to extended years; truly wholehearted and unconditionally – I thank you my love, for your choice and absolute acceptance.


Take me with you or I will be left with little choice; a mortals gift forevermore shall shower this weakened earth. Magically, I fell upon unabridged agreement; a dusty cenotaph contested fruitless against cascading waterfalls. Utmost urgency set forth to an incomparable paramount; for only the finest will suffice. Amidst the umpteenth visitation, the park alliance came into realization of how extremely austere I was. Crowned the seasons ambassador; with honor, my every wish was gratefully granted.

A hidden guilt among the common populace, we all fantasize the attendance of our own funeral; it was an impressive outcome to say the least. With nixed eulogy prepared, I vaguely remember a watery improv. When time played the role of generosity, Prospect was always the runner’s desired destination; I’d like to think this reserve was your target intention.

So enlighten me, could a completion be served for a bipedal marathon? Within a liquid trance, I aspire your silence will thaw come springtime. For now, dress warm; for I can smell the untainted frost of an incoming storm. Daydreams to dusk; ashes to snowflakes – Happy Birthday, my icelandic princess.

Page XIV

If I put myself out-of-site, will the mind follow? An elicited truth could very well confuse Houdini for a simple novice. After all, the intellect naturally provides extreme conservation; capable of barricading us from any evil we wish to escape from. Smoke and mirrors are a cinch to harness, as we could conceal the factual knowledge of any given perception. On the contrary, it is the revelation of the unknown that holds the only true merit; untouched by influence, leading any virtuoso to its final masterpiece.

Let us take God for instance, or lack thereof; a marrow that may often camouflage its own paragon of deception. Mental masturbation for the most, blockage of enlightened potential for the remainder; despite its bliss of ignorance. Enough riddles, the point has been beating about the bush. Life and death apparently need to be explained, and as precious as both may very well be; a dominant entity must take full responsibility.

Which introduces the question, can a grieving infidel hate God? I am afraid the exhausting paradox has lead astray, even on a holy day. Theism appears to be the perk for an unhappy believer; dawning light on this tangible hatred. I have found neither stranger in blood nor next of kin may conduct such a false blasphemy. Antipathy will cloud prudence and the fundamental axiom of life will go unappreciated.

Catechetical instructions aside, living has become an illness; and raising the chalice of bitterness is only a small symptom. Left to the vices within a marination of filth, a potential false-advertising lawsuit merges for the surgeons general. Vulnerability lends hand to population control; homosexuality, infectious disease, self-termination, present company included. Natural science can hardly be understood, let alone domesticated. After mercy of macrocosm, what remains for the anal retentive; angels and demons?

A dark tachrichim hangs neatly in the closet; clarity will arise when time reaches the essence. Undoubtedly, vivacity will be my last will and testament.