BRAVE MOON

By
T. Christian Digiosa

Copyright: 2010 tcd631@gmail.com

 IMPORTANT: Before you proceed to examine my inner
thinking; my heart and soul and imagination; please take
into account that these excerpts were extracted from a
plethora of journals, in no particular order, over the
course of eight years in the early part of the 21st century
(roughly 2002-2010). Inside has been all my pain, all my
sorrow, all of my dreams, and all of my fears. You’ll read
of heart break and of new love. You’ll question and be
questioned. You’ll read of a young man who imagined himself
a writer and thus began on a journey to find himself; his
voice, his reason to make sense out of the nonsensical, the
absurd, and the painstakingness of his passions, his
desperations, and his mere existence. This is me in the
purest form I know. I sometimes speak in metaphorical
tongues; perhaps you’ll be able to decipher a deeper
meaning; a deeper image than what I have been able to
portray. Perhaps you’ll be able to relate to these
entries. Should you attempt to judge me for my solace or my
desires, I can no longer fear. I surrender myself to the
reader. Without further ado, I present my dreaming self to
you.

**
1. Here I am again with another trusty journal and all the
thoughts within ready to be spilled out and confess
everything that the soul chooses. It starts with an idea
and ends when the mind is ready to sleep.

2. All ghosts are premonitions of the insecure self.

3. Your greatest work will not be forgotten as long as you
truly are passionate about every word that comes from the
depths of your lonely heart. Not every sentence will make
sense; not every person will understand the meaning of it
all. And frequently this will happen. If you can find
catharsis in the mere blurbs of your emotions; great things
will happen.
4. I’d like to subjugate this world and transcend the three
dimensional plane.
5. In the beginning there’s the coldness of this vast pale
earth. Then we grow into form with humility, innocence, and
pure curisoity. Subsequently, we manage to be inventive and
courageous without any limitations. Then we come to age and
realize that the world, the people are vicious, nasty, and
full of cynicism.
6. O’ it’s the cool breeze that gently caresses my cheeks
with the blue crisp skies and green leafy trees that makes
me curious to know life!
 2.

7. Those who paint the sky blue with description (such

words are vital for the third eye to see) are those who
contemplate the colors of their existence.

8. We are mere blurbs of our own imaginings.

9. A man is only beaten if he allows himself to be consumed
with hate, which is ultimately fear of accepting what is.

10. Technology and ego collectively create insanity.

11. Of all the premises born out of the deluded mind, the
one conclusion that separates man from other species is the
mathematics of language. This is not to say that other
species don’t communicate on certain levels but rather that
human beings have constructed a means that conveys
expressions to an end.
12. Love brings mind state of ecstatic endings; a broken
heart as rich as the soil in fertile Africa.

13. Our minds are like elastic rubber bands stretching

forever and ever.
14. My journey begins on the east end of Long Island and it
rides the Long Island Rail Road all the way to Penn
Station. Bay Ridge, Brooklyn molded my soul into a diligent
muse.
15. Take my journal and I’ll take your life!
16. Please tell me, who loves first? The tree or the leaf?

17. I stare at a pine tree that never dies and realize I

won’t be here forever.
18. I’m experiencing something and I can’t put my finger on
it. Is it real? Is it tangible? Can I even see it? It
flows through my veins by way of blood stream and I didn’t
even know it existed. I feel it. It helps my bones
grow. It helps my eyes see; a clear vision of the
future. It’s in me. It’s beautiful. It’s the reason I
write.

19. A fading sun explodes purple blue sky like fireworks on

the 4th of July...burning, burning, forever illuminated in
the stars. I watch the glow of a green meteorite rupturing
the atmosphere leaving residue of star dust on an Island
that fails to notice.

I :: CAPTURE :: IT
20. When my heart falls from the sky millions of birds will
wonder, why?
 3.

21. I wonder where all these people will be ten years from
now. Success? Lost? Maybe...dead? Well, that’s a matter
of relativity, isn’t it?

22. A clear sky reminds me of those childhood days when

P.D. and I used to skate the streets while tomorrow came
crashing forth.
23. The universe...

E x p a n d i n g
with the mind in a direction not known to man. My hands
held open waiting for the eternal light to take over. All I
see are raindrops falling from the sky and my imagination
creates a reason to believe in the future.
24. Today I stopped to watch the clouds move on by and the
delicate blue background remains a curtain to all dreams.
25. In the distance a ferry cuts across The Great South
Bay. My future resides in hopes and dreams where the sky
and water connect with the very essence of my soul. I
predict valuable inklings of what will become of me. I
block out negative electrical impulses from the limbic
system. And as the sun is blotted out by misty clouds, I
stare at the ferry that becomes a faint image in the
bay. All dreams become reality if you let it.
26. At the subatomic level I am a supernova in the night.
27. Between life and death I exist.

28. For every great thinker there’s even a better thought.

29. Astronomically, from the beginning we distanced
ourselves with time. Thank Hubble, Einstein, and
Perception.

30. I’ve become more of a spiritual person by studying the

vast world of quantum physics.
31. Life is a fireball of events blazing across an inky
black sky. Watch as memories diminish with the sight of
your eyes, kid.
32. Black crow saunters the sky like a lazy butterfly in
the summertime.
33. I’ll watch as those who think they have a grasp on life
let it slip on by. There’s beauty in truth but there’s also
ugliness too.
34. I’m made of philosophy and broken abstract poetry.
 4.

35. Traveling on the Long Island Railroad with the autumn

leaves falling to the earth’s surface and the colors of red
and yellow bursting into my eyes all the while the hustle
and bustle of passengers begin to disturb my Zen moment.

36. I can travel a thousand miles and still may never find
what I’m looking for.
37. Where is your art? Hidden underground or in the
mountains? Man, where is your art hidden? In the
heart? In some girl’s eyes? Man, where the fuck is your
art?
38. For all of you who doubted my talent or my genius let
me show you a thing or two about never giving up; never
resting for I am always and forever. This place is mine,
held in my grips and never letting go. This thing is mine
and I’m never letting go.
39. I write for peculiar eyes. Sometimes such peculiar
eyes resemble mine.
40. It’s only those who die within themselves before they
die in the physical world that are truly walking zombies.
41. I put too much emphasis on a golden smile and not
enough into the golden typewriter.
42. I’m made pure by my own soul, my own visions of
myself. The first mistake a person can make is letting
others foretell what’s wrong with their natural
selves. Don’t believe it. Trust comes from within; not
from without. Only the human heart can be healed through a
linear progression of time. All else will waste away like
the decaying flesh of the seasons. Be your pure self for
yourself and disregard those who lust to crush such natural
souls.
43. When her lips disintegrate from mine there’s nothing
but the cold wind ready to heal my heart.

44. We have let ourselves get to this; to the breaking

point and these scattered journal entries are my only traces
of survival.
45. Everything great can be viewed from one spectrum of the
universe; one point on this geological rock; one point in
time.
46. Over 13.7 billion years ago I formed as matter, heat,
and light only to be structured as a walking, thinking
individual. Even when the rotation of planets signified
that I’d change; I ended up remaining the same.
 5.

47. Raindrops tap on the window pane. Then the sun bursts
out dynamic rays of thermal radiation. I observe in
silence; reserved and calm as another batch of clouds rush
in.
48. The stone makes the tomb in which one day I will
rest. The dirt makes the soil which will act as my eternal
blanket. Calcium makes the skeleton which will be the only
physical part of me left. Everything else will be
intangible and up for interpretation.
49. One must notice that all lies lead to some sort of
truth; the fictional tongue.
50. Such thoughts lead me into wormholes of imagination.

51. Life has the mind burdened by objects of

affliction. The world scorns our face in the face of time.
52. The odd relationship between the moon and the earth
will make men ponder their lives away.

53. Have you ever wondered how the stars formed so

consistently that our existence is based off of the
necessity of the sun?
54. I exist like a tree.

55. My dreams live in the soil and cry in the grave.

56. Lightning bolts are everywhere. A sea of rain comes
smashing down. My friends and I are caught in one of the
worst storms I’ve ever seen. Trees are falling. Heart is
racing. Panic. Wind twirls like a tornado. Run!
57. Beyond the blue. Further than the clouds. Deeper than
the ocean...there’s a meaning.

58. You thought I forgot about you dear beautiful? I’ve

been expecting this world to blow like canons across the
wild side of the states. I haven’t lost touch with you, my
baby. I just lost touch with the world.
59. How many stars does it take to fill up a sugar bowl?

60. All this ink makes women sink into seas of

illumination.
61. The ones who dream sing like birds forever.

62. I call her destiny. She calls me fate.

63. I shall not fall from the sky. The dove only waits for
so long. Sunlight dwindles. A blanket of dusk fills the
 6.

mind like a biblical story. I only know one thing in

life: As long as you’re breathing, you’ll always dream.
64. Harvest moon planted by the image and the light. I
look to the sky with visions from pineal gland holographs.

65. As centuries pass, our ancient lives will be remembered

in manuscripts.
66. Subway stations lead me into tranquility. Dreams are
never heard when whispered; only the sounds of the rail road
against a steel machine and I’m learning to find myself in
solitude. Where is the world? Or better yet, where am
I? How many stops does it take to find oneself? All I know
is that things are the way they are for purposes one ought
to accept. I listen to the sounds of the loud speaker
shouting my destination.

67. We all move on with our lives even when the world seems
at odds with our hearts. It’ll be time to go just you wait.
68. Pelican, where is your mother? Why are you a scavenger
of the beasts? Pelican, sleep on the brown shavings of sand
grains. Pelican, where is your pillow? Pelican, why are
you so quiet?
69. Millions of pebbles on the ground resemble the millions
of galaxies in the universe and our ancient forefathers
contemplated the stars to the point where their heads
exploded star dust.
70. There are thunderstorms in my heart.
71. People stare blankly. No emotion in their body. These
subways are full of disenchanted human beings.

72. Reflection off of glass like a mirror shows every

imperfection on your skin.
73. O’ but a mountain is just a mountain if you fail to
climb it. And a river is just a river if you do not swim in
it. This life will forever be at your feet if you
experience it! What are you waiting for?
74. Historical past, we learn from ancestors’ mistakes and
lead ambitiously toward starlight.

75. The Great South Bay is a magnificent body of water;

dank in color when it rains. The bay separates Long Island
from the ever so narrowing Fire Island. Cars park by the
docks of this small town and peer into the expanse of waves
trying to find peace of mind; the state of supreme
meditation. Million dollar homes stretch along the
 7.

beach. Vast gray skies hover above. Sullen. Crying

precipitation against glass. Windshield wipers streak
squeaky clean view of Lady Earth. Her hands are a porcelain
grasp of mere existence. I drink from her mouth every day,
breathe her skin, and find myself longing for
voice. Rearview mirror. Review life.
76. She is a sunflower that reaches toward sunlight. I am
the soil that old men walk upon and where she sits
breathless. We are holding each other in the confusion of
lust and love. Broken clouds cast sun rays on
pavement. Some may travel roads just as confused as a
sunflower in the soil.
77. Thus the lunar eclipse emits shadows on cities of
America creating eyes that are capable of controlling the
needs of the inner voice.
78. Imitation world.
79. These streets of dank concrete make my knees weak from
the bleak to the black from the tracks to the weeds down
roads of future generations; dead end, said again, dead end.
80. The world is lost in an angel cloud...where is heaven?
81. It’s a digital planet. Telephone wires and internet
connections; communication of topographical issues across
the nation.
82. How is the moon botched by blackness while her silver
skin shivers in silence?

83. Roads meander to the solution of aggravated lives.

84. Thunder in the distance. Everyone lonely. Everyone
forgotten. Just the breeze hurrying our reason for
existing.

85. You are who you are because you are. My fingers coil
around a pen struggling to put words in a structure that is
coherent to an individual’s mind but it always seems as if
my poetry comes out abstract and incomprehensible. Yet, I
continue to write and seek for understanding. Maybe the
reason for my incoherent words is that it’s not applicable
today but is valued at the price of gold in some distant
generation from now. Ideas are what makes us human. I
dwell in the poverty of these rich details.
86. She buds like a sunflower in spring’s seasonal
hands. I crumble like volcanic rock. Her skin is the shade
of truth in a fearful world. I follow her voice into a room
of my subconscious. There, I observe golden planets revolve
around a central light.
 8.

87. The dead can’t see the living and the living can’t see
the dead but to the sun we’re all blind to the cause. In
effect, we are stranded on a rock that repeats itself as a
historical artifact.
88. In a deck of cards there is chance and in the deck of
life the probability of us meeting again is of theoretical
circumstance.

89. We are filled with absolute love of life but we have

not known each other in years as the globe spins on its
axis...the seasons fly by.
90. Have I trusted too many people? Have I expressed
myself too much?

91. Bird, where are you going? Where art thou? In the
present state? I am confused. I am lost. Perhaps even a
little scared...
92. Words will be words forever effecting the minds whom
wish to listen.
93. Flaunt those shoulders, show some skin, watch the
female sin. Grin like you mean it. Kiss like you mean
it. Retrieve your pet peeves with a glass of wine and
sudden ease.

94. The sun may rescue the hearts of nocturnal

belligerence.
95. We can’t run from death. It haunts every one of
us. It smells of indecent aroma and stings the
nostrils. We can’t do anything but wait.
96. In these journals I search not knowing what the mind is
about to release but understanding that it will, at any
moment, explode tremendous volcanic thoughts in the abyss of
life; only effecting the ones that truly feel the vibrations
inside. And maybe it’s my family and close friends that
these thoughts will effect. And maybe, once, they will know
who I am. I know that they love me. I’ll know that much
forever.

97. And in an instant, I vanish like a ghost.

98. She is a warrior dressed in white; an alpine angel of
the heavens; a valiant soldier of hope.
99. Smoke fills a teal sky, the sun sets and we’re gone...

100. The composition of stars are the same ingredients that

make up our eyes. Only the stars can never see how
beautiful this life really is.
 9.

101. Spider on the ceiling. Upside down to us. Perfectly

normal to it. This is relativity at its finest.

102. Divide myself into two: head & body, mind & action.
103. Ear-rational: listen to the whole truth.
104. A building stands. A building falls. This is the
evolution of man made inventions.

105. The moon is a mantra within itself. It is a religion

if you believe in the stars.
106. I found you in the landscape that they so proudly
dismissed. You were huddled by the weeping willow tree. I
hugged you, kissed you, showed you that love isn’t just a
term of endearment but rather a reason for existence. We
drove off into the night. In silence.
107. I experience time only when I’m awake.

108. In the stars there’s a bull who sleeps over my house

during winter and a man who people call Hercules during
summer. I am a constellation of American dreams.
109. I have always been a dreamer. I have always listened
to the motion of the breeze. My direction is carried out by
the moonlight’s desire.
110. When we dream we turn into modern day playwrights.
111. Laugh old man. Laugh in his face. Make him feel
worthless and watch him grow up to be exactly like you.
112. If the sky is the canvas; the moon is the vision.
113. When we kissed, she left a haiku on my lips.

114. One found my soul in a bowl of Cheerios and ate my

existence until all that was left was some milk.
115. Artist, go find your paint brush. Mix primary colors
in her eyes; make her blind so the only art she sees is in
her dreams.

116. May the world recognize my face one day and forever
feel relieved of the stresses of their lives. May rain
drops succumb to sun rays and bright lipstick red tuLIPS
bloom eternal redemption in the eyes that feel beat
down. We may never change the world but we can certainly
try.
117. The circumference of our lives measure up to the
diameter of our souls.
 10.

118. I hear her name in the rain. She speaks of dreams. I

listen ambitiously. My ears are swallowed by the feminine
in her voice. The clouds roar closer like tigers. I turn
to the journal and become drenched.
119. I don’t know in which direction she takes me. I’m
sent with a postal card. She reads me. Eyes fill up with
tears. I’m still; lifeless yet full of life...I am a
goodbye letter.

120. Sad world on fire; bombs blast, people die, children

cry...lost.
121. Can I paint you with my fingers? Red, yellow, and
blue? Can it dry to mold the impressions on your face?

122. How many writers question their ability to write?

123. Quantum mind; atoms invisible to eye, I wonder about
the universe of the infinitely small.

124. I sing to the moon like how my ancestors once

did. The moon serenades me with her glimmering silver
shine.
125. Roaring rumbling waves of The Great South Bay, O’ the
fish, crabs, and oysters, O’ scavenger seagulls with beaks
resembling knives, O’ the mighty wind blows; a sailboat, a
driftwood, a duck; with swirling clouds of mother’s fabric
sewn together; the vast blue upside down ocean is a mirror.
126. There are difficulties that one faces when attempting
to dig deep down to understand themselves, completely. These
difficulties teach us the most about humility. Humble
experiences stem from these adversities. And without them
we would never learn anything at all.
127. The night is only young if you start early.

128. Most of the people in your life are there to test

you. Will you succumb to the madness? Or give in to the
tumultuous feelings of emptiness? Maybe you will learn from
it.

129. Why are you writing so late at night when everyone is

home sleeping? Why are you writing for no one at all? Is
it to be free? Can this be a creative democracy? I’m
becoming disillusioned about my relationship with her. I
resort to this pen and journal to ease the pain...perhaps
that’s why you’re writing; to free your heart.

130. I’m tempted to make sense of all this confusion but

it’s the worst thing to do because everyone knows that it
won’t ever stop.
 11.

131. In life, good ones come and good ones go. Each moment
that passes can’t be taken for granted or they’ll slip by
without you even noticing.
132. Our eyes are broken mirrors.

133. Deep down there’s much pain. When a man gives his
heart, he really gives it. When a woman takes advantage of
it; a man should learn to discard everything that broke his
heart.

134. Study the noble sea. Study it hard. It’s forever

moving and cares very little about time.
135. Who am I but one person sitting on one banister, near
one road, without money, without a job, without a
woman. What I’ve created is nothing more than expected.

136. Time to move on before the swans catch me.

137. I am one man amongst giant trees. I am infinitely and
undoubtedly small. Should I stand as tall as the oaks? I
will be the larger of men; of boldness and great
strength. I’ll become the tree.
138. The anatomy of the mind can deceive the most brilliant
of people. The most brilliant of people can deceive the
anatomy of minds.

139. Reasons why the world sleeps: Tired, confused, bored,

dreams, escape, energy, drunk...all valid reasons to close
those sullen eyes.
140. Meditations of the inner ghost: parrots fly through
wind storms; the sun is a misty orange; purple swirls
against the clouds; oceans similar to your tears (manifest
images into the memory box, saved for a rainy day).
141. Idols in the sky resemble chariots of magnificent
dreams falling from expanding eternity.

142. Drowning sweet carnations in the annual season

drenched in the pouring rain. Pedals break off. I saunter
upon the gravel. Fatal manuscripts determine the outcome.
143. How does one interpret the mind when we don’t have
conclusive evidence of its function?
144. The motion of planets against a faint black backdrop;
white crystals bubbling from a distance; circular patterns
of moons; tidal waves like blue blankets in the night.

145. The intentions of a man is to create his truth with

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silent activity. The world is his utensil in the burrowing

night. Shadows trace his actions.
146. Silent observer of the midnight ghost train, where
will you lead me next?

147. Great poets of Earth, join me to revolutionize the art

of words and take back the meaning of self expression!
148. Silence down in the subway station. The world is lost
amongst American bridges. I sit here meditating with the
rejoicing sounds of New York City.
149. Middletown Road; waiting for the train. Our lives are
a transition to the next ride.
150. Embrace what you are and what you are not.

151. Mistakes are made by every person. It’s not a matter

of morality but a matter of honesty; staying true to
oneself. Not one person is perfect. Perfection is an
undefined term. It belongs under the sea.

152. Broken window glass is a shattered view.

153. The body is a form of trust.
154. What is a prodigy? It’s merely insanity with a smile.

155. The man who changes is the man who

contradicts. There’s nothing wrong with this contradiction
unless it turns you into a constant hypocrite.
156. The cool breeze rushes in. I protect the warmth of my
skin with a hooded sweatshirt. Yet, I remain cold and numb.

157. Thunder clouds roll in dark and thick. Raindrops

scatter across a sleeping metropolis. The world is an
unmarked candidate for disaster.

158. Imagination will create obscene intentions; action

emphasized with a pencil.
159. We are a desolate backdrop to some old forgotten
movie.

160. You and I run parallel to the infinite life of

being. We will never touch hands. We will see a disorder
of faces passing in time.
161. As the pendulum swings, our arms act as weights with
buckets of water attached to the fingertips; balancing the
center of our solar plexus.
 13.

162. Morals have me suffering on my bed. To dwell is to

confine the mind.
163. Such applied force will change the direction of my
mood.

164. Erosion of memory like beaches on Long Island, only

makes an old man weep.
165. We all move to the silent whisper of night. I watch
old friends become one with the sun making amends with the
clouds. I see their faces as a shadow. O’ how they walk
from the past into a bubbling bright future. When I look in
the mirror I see an oval structured face and I ask, "Have I
claimed the world?" These questions are part of an internal
truth. Yet, I have not found a concrete answer. Right now,
these words may never mean anything to anyone. Generations
from now, when I’m locked in a coffin with the worms, people
will understand all of these mumbling thoughts. This isn’t
meant for now. What we do today are merely foundations for
a future date. And when we grow old with the trees, our
nights will be spent drawing the picture of our
purpose. The youth will watch in awe, the magnificence of
such a picture. Moons will create tidal waves of complete
understanding. We will grow with enlightenment and die a
true soul.
166. My nephew is a king. He is pure like snow, rich in
beauty, smart like a fox, and has the aroma of innocent
roses.
167. The rain is pouring down. People walk up and down the
sidewalk seeking shelter. Clouds are thick and gray. My
hands are cold from writing.

168. I have managed to become a ghost of the pillow dream.

169. Good riddance man, love thyself!
170. Can a poet cry? His heart is like a wounded
butterfly, eyes of a dying animal, struggling to hold back
tears.
171. My nephew painted me a rock and called it his
"Greatest masterpiece." My brother’s greatest masterpiece
was his son. My greatest masterpiece has yet to
come. Until then, I will sit up and stare at my nephew’s
art.
172. Old damn window pane and a wooden stool where I sit to
drink and dwell all the mysteries in life as the music
blasts over airwaves and the world is full of madness for
the dollar. At the bar, ancient memories sweetly seep out
 14.

from discrete taste of mouth; roses of internal

intellect. Silence of generations, youth speaks, go get ya
story from da guys where da real stories are. Aren’t ya a
bad man for lacking what ya want? Ill desires spawn of the
heart stricken night.

173. All these lost thoughts somehow always coalesce into

the dark gray night. My life is guided by the only passion
I know. There are so many directions to choose from; North,
South, East, West. This is the known world where children
sleep. We all become something other than what we actually
are; most of us do and it certainly creates a turmoil, a
chaos inside...When the sky opens up, enormous starlight
drowns out the streetlights leaving shadows in the
dust. It’s all part of the big picture.
174. A poker game gives definition to life. All answers
come out as statistics and odds. Bet your soul on the
bluff.
175. I’m a lion, a bear, a cat, a snake, a bird, a
mouse. But at some point I became a human.

176. How vast are our intentions? Only as big as the

comprehension of mind. How complex are our theories? Only
as simple as day break. How interesting are our
lives? About as interesting as a turtle climbing a boulder.
177. I’m a frozen flower. My fingertips are like pedals;
blue as a jay perched on a fence. Only in the winter do my
features crumble.
178. My glass confidence was cut by the diamond of your
words, formulated by the depths of your heated soul. You
spewed out love and ash that filled my crystal lungs with
minerals of age old fractures. It’s no wonder that I
tremble every time I walk upon the igneous ground.
179. There are ink stains on my pillow. I’ve been drawing
you in my dreams. It’s the sleep that never wants to
awaken.
180. Passion is a gun pointed at the heart in a game of
Russian roulette. Pull the trigger. Life determined by a
simple mechanism of society’s downfall.

181. Evolution of mind; becoming, attempting, destroying.

182. Buddha bear, have no fear, you’re always here.
183. My mind may move molecular matter manipulating mundane
motion.
 15.

184. All I need is this pen; the almighty tool, vehicle for
the imagination that builds homes and constructs
poems. Yes, this tool is all I need.

185. In the distance are the cry of trains. I can smell

gull droppings and can taste the spring. Rebirth of a new
journal; new days rejuvenate love in her eyes. What is this
distance? Come closer. Grip my hands. Kiss me.

186. Dumb ego. Rid yourself!

187. I’m eastern bound on the train and I think the person
sitting across from me is a trainsexual.
188. Man’s ego has played victim long enough.

189. No intelligent person looks in the mirror for self

actualization. We are self actualized by the credo that
drives us. What is the credo that drives you? Where does
your heart bare witness to the opulence of your soul?

190. I write a thousand little scriptures for all the

non-believers.
191. Most contemporary men are inconsistent with their
emotions. Our culture has been exposed to the horrors of
corruption. Only time; that immeasurable bastard, will tell
the outcome.
192. Can’t take drama? Don’t date a writer.
193. NO SLEEP TILL PENN STATION!

194. I embark on this journey away from all those who own
their misconceptions of me. Now, since spring has arrived
and the sun is burning bright, high above the blue vastness
that acts as a backdrop for darting black birds and zooming
airplanes, I’m ready to bring myself to my own
rebirth. Something new must come into experience.
195. All people have faint glimpses of hope burbling inside
their gut.
196. When it comes to art there are a few rules necessary
to create an external picture: 1) Love of creating. 2)
Beauty; symmetrical or chaotic. 3) Character; the rounder
the better. 4) Integrity of internal universe. 5) Trust in
oneself.
197. When I write in abstract it’s usually because my mind
feels expanded or it’s my brain playing with style and form.
198. All it’s supposed to be is mannerisms. Life is a big
behavioral act with scenes and sequences through every day
 16.

events. Convincing and persuading makes the world go

’round. Like one big social business.
199. Legends are born out of great imaginations.
200. Little worm, can I be you for just one moment?

201. I formulated an opinion based off the movements of her

hands.
202. We are here now in the present moment with blue skies
and birds singing. Boats float in the water. It’s just me
and the Zen soul. I bring peace and harmony back into my
life. Breathing from the diaphragm and exhaling as the sun
shines on gloomy situations.
203. Just look up and see yourself in the reflection of
god. And when I say god, I mean the almighty universe; the
fabric of space-time and the light of supreme consciousness.
204. How many thoughts create an idea?
205. Take people for who they are and not what you expect
them to be.
206. War is raw forward and backward; no matter how you
look at it.
207. I have an opinion on the matter of poverty. It is as
dangerous as a nuclear war. Plight has caused mankind to
suffer. Children cry out of starvation. Brains
dwindle. This nation watches generations become
intolerable. They are slipping away.
208. I have been beaten up because I’ve stuck to my
intuition. I believe that if one is passionate in what they
do then there’s the ability for mass change. Not the change
they feed us on T.V. but the change that great thinkers once
stood for. Without self respect there is no reason to
live. Sometimes one has to fight for their respect. It is
part of human nature to maintain ground and composure.
209. Tentacles of an octopus coiled around her prey. And
how beautiful she kills for lust.
210. Who cares about a clock when the hands have been
stripped from its center?
211. Wormholes into the future when the past is a constant
reminder of what was. I merely exist as a breathing
thinking creature roaming a continent that once belonged to
the great land mass of Pangea. Yet, as all things tumble,
time laughs in the face of the believer; the change occurs
 17.

without us even noticing like when the phases of the moon

correlate with the degrees of latitude. The sediments on
the ocean floor increase with transgression of water. These
are the elements in life that grabs us by the horn and makes
us wonder why? Why do so many of us ignore truth? The
truth in ourselves. How many people really understand
themselves and aren’t jaded by the giant ego? Sometimes I
peer out into the sea of constellations and try to break
life back down to the basics. But the only effect I see is
the plethora of unanswered questions. Perhaps they will
never be answered; all of these questions that hide away in
the deep corners of our hearts. My body is a motionless
time warp into a dimension of ideas. Within every rock is a
mineral and within every mineral is an ingredient. Let self
be self. Let naught be simply naught. We were all taught
to seek and find but the composition of human existence is a
search forever. If I were to fall beyond an event horizon,
a black hole may rip to shreds all that I ever felt I knew
and all that would be left of me would be the comfort of my
words. Time and space are one. One day we all will become
fossils of earth in which our days would resemble a mold of
ash like casts in Pompeii. Igneous intrusions will break
through older rock providing the world lets it. With all
irrelevancy is the notion of forgetting. This is a bleak
concept. To be forgotten is to be unseen and unheard. When
fog forms up-slope, the people will be forgotten until they
reach the peak and descend back into focus. Humans are so
elegantly confined to their societal ways that they forget
how to be human.
212. I have never seen my face in real time only the
interpretation of a mirror.
213. Pretend that the sulky world is your stage.

214. When we crumble to the forbidden sea we will see that

rocky sediments were meant for marine environment and our
terrestrial loves were only as stable as the mountains that
ran across your milky white chest.

215. Fear not the man of existence even though his

existentialist voice only penetrates the wall where graffiti
molds. Our hearts are borrowed by spirits. The ego is
afraid of rejection. But why should it be scared? Our
lives are based off of unintentional paranoid states.

216. Embrace pain in a way where it becomes natural to feel

and as the sun’s rays pour onto our faces our changing
hearts will be filled with the same amount of
sorrow. Surrender to melancholy December. My voice yells
out melodramatic Sutras to the condescending night sky;
calling the moon to force out tears representing a soul
being lost amongst sound waves. The eternal sound track to
 18.

the ever long, four star, two hour movie script that has
been quoted a quarter of a million times against all fading
night.
217. Winter has taken over the sullen lips of every man and
my old friend passed away from failure of his donor’s
lungs. All this time I try to re-establish what it means to
truly be alive. There is sorrow seeping out of my sneakers,
slicking the bare earth, freezing until eternally removing
itself from the state of liquid form. I’m wistfully
breathing tormenting air that comes from Canadian skies. I
dream the depths of human existence. My heart is bare like
desperate trees growing out of fear. Change is somewhat of
a monitor for internal demise. If I could run the distance
would my rate be the time? Time is oblivious to those who
know me by name rather than by eyes. Clouds form this very
instant for souls to surf the skies and I hope he is sipping
wine, skating airwaves, and becoming one with the
divine. Only the deceased know of peace. The world is
rapidly spinning. It was so hard seeing his casket open,
body lifeless, like driftwood in an ocean; the world
spinning elsewhere as I prayed and watched his blood turn to
ash.

218. Suck in oxygen, hold in breath, believe in the love of

yourself. Understand pain, understand hurt, understand
truth.

219. Miles high in the sky are treasures of eternal peace.

220. What shape is imagination? Does it have a color?
221. We fall to pieces on the train. Friends are half
drunk and half asleep. We move into eternal peace loving
everyone but ourselves. Lights flicker on and off as we
move into Long Island territory. The night is long and
dreadful. Sometimes we will never know why we do the things
we do. The motion of trains are so particular: moving,
wobbling, halting at every station we pass. That’s the
point, I guess. As we weave in and out of consistency. We
have failed tonight. Breathing in the New Year for the new
fear. Everyone acts so blemished. And why shouldn’t
we? Our pain lives on. As I peer out into the distant
distance, street lights come in and out of focus. I have
lost all focus. My throat has become sore after smoking
cigars in Times Square. The ball dropped and my body was
chilled with the overwhelming sensation of failure. Have I
really failed, thus far, in life? Pursuing a mad dream of
writing...failure is nothing more than a mirror image to
success.

222. Between the ground and sky comes a man with a chance;
a chance to guide himself to wherever he determines.
 19.

223. If it continues to rain tonight let the ground absorb

the pain and make it partially evaporate into the sullen
dusk of twilight. Silence of raindrops tap on top rooftops.
224. Many moons will pass while the ceremony of our births
begin.
225. Will the birds call my name? The celestial sun burns
forever. I am entranced in a sun beam dancing like an
Indian in 18th century America.

226. Manifest thought outward, energy of the locomotive

soul.
227. The problem is that I think too much when everyone
else are sleeping nestled in their comfortable beds dreaming
of a way to find themselves spiritually.

228. The essential American is a broken fool, completely

misunderstood. He who walks in truth finds himself shot
down by judgement. The critic is a parasite of self
expression.

229. We live in a world where tremendous pain pours on our

shoulders like rain drops in mid August. I reflect on who I
am as a person and feel myself growing ever so lighter in
the mind and body; finally being released into meditative
states of consciousness that leads to infinite exaggeration
of space.

230. Our generation are empty sleepers of contemporary

loneliness.
231. A voice buried in the ground makes for muffled
communication. We lack communication. Petty trials of
speech that perish in the grave.
232. Tulips love not the eyes but the hands.
233. In the beginning of this, before all the gray took
over, before the constant bickering, before the passion
capsized like a sinking ship; we were two ways of knowing
what we were; a violet and a bitter flower. Now, I’ve
learned to accept the facts even when the facts never seem
to add up. I fell over my feet for you; the way a punch
drunk lover falls to the floor. My sensitivity is a flower
and you’re completely destroying any beauty left in it.
234. Beauty is always assumed to be symmetrical. Although,
there’s something ugly inside all of us. Only these dim
lights, a shade, and a walloping blackness of night can
really understand what is and what is not beauty.
 20.

235. You must not let your heart be defeated by constant

obstacles. There are many people out there that want to eat
your soul like wolves in midnight with their fangs as sharp
as a devil’s horns.

236. Have you ever looked around and noticed people you
never even knew existed? It’s hard to comprehend that our
minds are like light bulbs; once it goes out there’s no
coming back.
237. One day someone will pick up this journal and say,
"Why so glum?"
238. A dozen seagulls float in the freezing water.
239. Let the sun and the dreaming man coincide.

240. The timid heart is useless. An incomplete soul is

forever empty. You might as well fill the tub with
blood...or better yet, second chances!
241. The pen will always be my guide. The ink will last a
lifetime in memory.

242. Come here bird. Let me dip your feathers in ink and
create a soaring masterpiece.
243. O’ how the bubble universe is a treasure chest of
possibilities.

244. Modern men are sitting around a round table, drinking

philosophy through a naked straw.
245. Before I make it to the other side, let me touch her
lips one last time.
246. The lights brighten like solar stars exploding
outwards for the first time.
247. Where I need to be is in the dark sea before the sun
kisses my feet, before the end of day.
248. A little bit of me wants to flee to the cold Arctic so
I can freeze myself in the linear progression of time.
249. This is an ode to anyone who cares.

250. No. I will not wait for the world to end to get what
I want. What do I want? I want a big bad reason to say
HA! I want my journals and poems to live forever...that’s a
long fucking time.

251. Why do I see fish in the sky nibbling at the stars?

 21.

252. Spoon out my eyes and feed it to attic monsters.

253. To swallow a flower would be to choke on the stem or
bloom from the soul a tree of questions; in search, on a
quest for answers. Answers alone will not do me or the
infinite syllable justice.

254. All dreams are created equal. Then as we get older we

begin to realize that dreams are divided by class.
255. She wears a ring like the planet Saturn. That’s a
large ring.
256. Sometimes when you’re down and out you just have to
move the body, get it out of the dismal state of
oblivion. Okay, now, dance!

257. A mix of rain and snow causes a bleak fog to roll in

thick and my disenchanted heart is even more silent; even
more dark.
258. You better start thinking ahead before it’s checkmate.

259. At first glance I was the white feathered bird of

mystery and your eyes were the rock of the highest mountain
with purple skies in your laughter. Then I became a
chameleon full of sun downs and nightmares. By the time I
really looked in your eyes, you became a fossil of love.

260. You know the world. You’re a strong bull in a little

cage. The mind is a function of a complex brain. Break
free from all the worries because you know more than you
think.

261. Draw me in a dream. A dream you cannot erase.

262. Out of the oddities in life we become the abstract
personalities that we are.
263. O’ winter, with your great blue skies and your
majestic white clouds, at what point will you be aware of my
brittle bones? From where do you find charm?
264. Snow cascades the island and my eyes are dozing off
into the infinite abyss of mind.

265. Diaphanous clouds are the color of bone with crystals

dancing in the sky.
266. Another night with a crowded train; luckily no
conductor took my ticket. Free ride tomorrow!

267. How often or not how often? That is the question.

 22.

268. When snow hits the windshield, it turns into water

droplets racing down and blurring my vision of the future.

269. Somewhere down in Virginia, some boy is staring up at

the clouds and is watching a plane pass by. Interestingly
enough, I’m on that plane.
270. It’s a Zen moment; flying in planes.

271. With the sky and clouds beneath me, I blow my baby a
kiss.
272. All of these people are traveling to New York City and
none of these people have found the secret to their own
lives; at least that’s what their absent minded faces are
expressing to me.
273. Stop this war! Stop this broken scathed heart! Stop
this crying!
274. What is love but a passing train when the sun goes
down.
275. Has all art been beaten down by brown nosing bastards
with their eyes glimmering in their own disgust? Where is
art nowadays?

276. The last days of February are like the last days of a
cold unbearable withering.
277. Who can smell a rat? I can smell a rat. He claims
he’s a writer yet has never made fiction come to life or
manifested beauty in a poem. Rest assured, he’s no
writer. He’s a rat.
278. If not me, then who should I be? We are all walking
metaphors attempting to mediate our lives.

279. What is this will to write? I ask as the train

rattles beneath me. And why are the clouds consuming the
sky with its gray complexion? I define the sky as a
threaded quilt.
280. Perhaps I’m an altruistic man who has sympathy for
another man who is rather down.
281. Out of all existence comes nothingness. On the
grander scheme of things we are mere objects on a
canvas. Perhaps we need a revision of our colorless lives.

282. Not all people are made of dust; not all men are made
martyrs. However, all women are the source of life (womb
and bloom). Perhaps we will all one day become legends of
this rocky earth.
 23.

283. Too many rain drops, not enough earth.

284. Who will find this journal? Who will dare measure my
mental capacity?
285. Don’t you know journals are made for letting all the
shit that’s stuck in the head pour out? This is my
brainstorming facility.
286. All people are exhibitionists in some way, shape, or
form. It’s a way for the ego to feel complete.

287. Is the writer a fool? Maybe in the 21st century!

288. Artist, you are worthless in this place. Artist, you
must find another path. How else will you earn a
living? You can’t even support yourself. These are the
ideals of the average low watt brain.
289. The laws of love have been broken.
290. To be a brilliant person you must first be a decent
human being.

291. Today, I found a pen but the ink was dry. So I wrote
an invisible poem; ghostly. It appeared in your attic ten
months later.
292. .memories obsolete of artifact empty an is journal <--

293. Who are we but egos manifested into dilemmas?

294. Bless the earth, hark the sun, Horus sleeps and
resurrects with the three wise men: The light, The one, The
sun.

295. Blood crimson. Red earth. Rebirth of silence. No

more violence. Spoken dialects in vernacular language. I
write for the weak in anguish.
296. Divisions of the mind divine by internal
truth. Speak, think, blink. The ink spills and I’m done.
297. Poet in the corner with the blue moon immersed in my
eyes. Orange peels and white foam during summer madness.

298. Abstract rhymes spawn internal rhythm and beat.

299. The butterfly will manage to lose its wings this
summer. It will become a flightless insect.
300. The tree of life stems from seeds and the day sparks
by the use of imagination.
 24.

301. If I have a million little ideas in my head and I

knew the stars were the result of these ideas; I’d be rich
with the elements of life.
302. I find myself writing amongst the dwellers of this
earth. A silent whisper and a big cry for all those who
fail to try.
303. When a poet has a voice, he seldom speaks. He’d
rather describe colors in words.

304. Who may explore infinite realms? Who may be one with
the sun? How vast is heaven? Do dreams sleep with a
pillow? What time is it on Mars?
305. The sun beats down on our heads. The ocean looks
infinite. What if the Atlantic came crashing on us? Would
we survive the impact?
306. SELF MIND: 1) How you perceive yourself. 2) Creates
own universe through imagination. OBJECTIVE MIND: 1) How
others perceive you. 2) Has no idea what thoughts you’re
thinking.

307. I love looking at the leaves dance in the wind.

308. Why so down and destructive all the time? Don’t you
know that the world is beautiful? Look at the leaves, look
at your family, look at the stars, look at yourself...beauty
is everywhere.
309. Flies cling to the wine stained glass.
310. The wind is thick with satisfaction ::sips:: I’m
heightened; brought to a place not known to mankind.

311. The sun is the most beautiful creature in the

universe. Besides my mother.
312. Angels lift grandfather’s soul towards the blueness of
sky.
313. How can life beckon the end? The human soul may
vanish to dust and ash but the memory will be here
eternally.

314. She’ll whisper a prayer into his ear and soon the last
day will arrive.
315. All that’s left are the empty streets.
316. All men reflect on their lives when the day arrives
for them to move on. Life is shorter than most people can
 25.

handle. I think the second law of thermodynamics plays a

huge roll in human entropy.

317. Her hands clench his. He’s emaciated and his eyes are
closed. "Move your fingers if you can hear me," she says as
she begs for him to stay alive. I never understood death.
318. I’m a derivative of the nocturnal stars.

319. Each dream manifests from a seed in the mind. The

same seed that stems from the soul. And if the soul
understands then maybe the universe will consider your
plans.
320. An obsolete life dissolved into misconceptions of a
reoccurring dream reminds me of the constant chaos felt
inside.
321. Street corner madness with cigarette butts and
helpless romantics. The sun goes down. At least my sanity
is gripped in the palm of my hands.

322. I write to realize why the self is in the universe.

323. I write about fake people to try to make them feel
real.

324. Half of perception is understood by thyself. But if

you’re drunk, you will recognize everything.
325. We are so lost in this world that we search for things
beyond our comprehension.

326. Love is a horrible addiction. It will eat away at the

soul when she completely ignores you.
327. So quickly you walk into existence and so quickly you
exit.

328. Universe, I call to you for promise. Promise me that

I was placed on this earth with a purpose. I’ll forever
expand with your eyes.
329. When man gives up fighting for love; that will define
tragedy.
330. Two boats out in the bay. My dreams ignited by the
sea.
331. For years I’ve been in search for my own voice. I
have to learn to trust my instincts.
332. I can see for miles today. A clear path to the
undefined future.
 26.

333. In case you were wondering why the sky is so blue,

just look at how much pain is in this world. You would be
blue too.
334. The poet is diversified every minute of the day.

335. New York City, where art thou? In this summer heat,
I’m trapped on land, surrounded by people who don’t give a
damn. I know one thing is certain, this thought won’t last
longer than this sentence.

336. Bury your head in the soil and hope to grow tomorrow.
337. Kiss the moon for just one second and know what it
means to feel loved.
338. Fuck expectations.

339. Every man with a broken heart roams the universe lost
and in search for love. I should fall in love with Saturn’s
rings and never be out of the loop again.
340. Who will save the poet’s soul?

341. Each person is a solar system within their own

universe.
342. I’ll be drunk tonight off of bedtime stories.

343. Flowers shiver in the wind.

344. Resemble amongst the cloud all the actualities I
live. Three hundred reflections and none of them resemble a
perfect face. I haven’t felt so ugly since the time you
slapped my cheek. Sometimes crying in slouched posture is
no good for the spine yet will do for the moment. Incidents
in life may cause a leap in age and maybe it will provoke
vocation.
345. I gaze across a table where cups of coffee shadow the
significance of the mind but only for the temptation to kiss
a portrait of lips so alike to you. I manifest in a forty
second dream. Resuscitate a sullen skip of heart beat
whenever a shooting green comet sets ablaze a painted
night. It’s exactly my expressionless ferment. Long Island
is a natural beast of old glaciers. Simply, I am a devotion
to a tyrant of solemnity forged by a two sided relationship
between night and day. Many are a facade mirage like a
Picasso glimpse yet too little is truth.
346. Van Gogh where no van has gone before. You a-maze me
into undiscovered corners. I’m drawn by a fork in the road;
a dried up artist of scarce letters has created his path.
 27.

347. This is the end of alphabetical letters U & I.

348. My memory of you is something more than fiction. More
or less, we were two tales combined into a pony story. They
told of our epic around campfires, roasting marshmallows,
tent in background, smoke billowing the silent earth. They
talked of how we changed several flames. A canteen of water
couldn’t put out the rage. We were the ones killing our own
creation. They never forgave us for that. Who are
they? They are us. And we are them. Smooth muscle is
never controlled. Therefore, what was then is now fragments
into booklets of screenplays and film accounts compiled in
over stimuli brain.
349. Embark on the road ahead not knowing anything of the
outcome. Cross bridges where wheat fields sway in the
wind. Lake parts each way. Incarnate character within a
picturesque voice. I haven’t loved anyone for years. Until
you came along.
350. Sometimes the world we walk upon is
nonexistence. March to the invisible month across a vast
island of sand. Drifting ghosts enter vacant attic. Is
this what became of you and I? Have we become dark matter?
351. I have loved so hard and fell so deep.
352. During midnight is when a person should call for
distance.

353. Call upon a winter wrath for truth. Speak to a white

wall. No answer. Just bouncing vocal vibratos off of all
the insignificant things in life. A departure of breath and
soul occurs as all minuscule events in life flash before our
dilated pupils. And to each man I wish a thousand pounds of
luck for we are the death of a trying breed.
354. The writer writes to seek out some sort of truth
within themselves. But the truth is they’ll never find it.

355. Fireflies spark my interest.

356. Digest your soul before you go swimming in the ocean.
357. Sometimes it’s hard to say goodbye. In the somberness
of night, I sometimes weep silent tears that turn to icicles
at the base of my chin because her cold words have frozen my
body. The sadness melts by morning where I, with dark rings
around my eyes, sleep in the corner of my room.
358. The broken fragments of my thoughts seep out on
paper. I rarely make sense in times like this. In the
morning I’ll still be mourning and by the afternoon I’ll be
 28.

losing sight of my reasons. Break down these walls and this

is the outcome; a broken heart, a fool with crumbling dreams
and desires that burn to ash and dust.
359. I cradle this pen in my hand and start causing
destruction to the notepad. The ink spills my guts and
bones. So you want to know my deepest secrets? And you
want to know my mystery? Well, let your eyes eat my journal
as you finish and come back for more.
360. Show me your face beautiful day and let your sun rays
lift my spirits. Take me to a place where I’m free from
solemnity. The white puffy clouds form the shapes of arrows
and I see cupid fall from the sky. Have you ever wondered
why? Why does love sometimes wither and die?
361. How can dreams be born? How can the birth of the sun
sing my name? How can you and I be two planets in the same
solar system and never cross paths? How can we ever make
amends if we don’t even see each other face to face?
362. In rhythm and in rhyme the wind chimes of your voice
sing a song for everyone to hear. And now I’m thinking of
the right words to say. In time we will understand each
other; we’ll be healed.
363. You don’t have to fix your hair girl. You already
look pretty with your brown hair and short dress. Why do
you keep staring at your reflection? You have nothing to
worry about. Beauty is your natural scent that lingers as
you pass.
364. Some souls remain empty in the air. Some souls grow
old. The point of love is to fill the void. One day the
pain will drown in the sea and my eyes will stay afloat for
you. They’ll always stay afloat. I keep faith in my back
pocket.
365. I sit alone and write. It comforts my feelings better
than any meds prescribed by these freaked out
doctors. These words will one day mark my place on this
earth. Legends always struggle and they will continue to
struggle till the day they rest. I write. I write. I
write. I write. I write.
366. 1/2 heart < x

367. I withdraw from a bank account of your social

security.
368. We are nothing more than separate birds on a birch top
window sill. Letting go is never an easy task. I stray
away from stars with a sudden EXPLOSION.
 29.

369. I keep a journal. In it is everything that my heart

contains. It seeps out through the tiny crevices between
pages and stains fingertips a pinkish hue. I write to you
in my journal but you may never know. I used to write you
poetry. I burnt the edges of the paper to make it appear
like an ancient artifact. Those letters collect dust under
my bed. Sometimes I feel as if I should bury them to give
it some sort of peace. Or better yet, to make peace with my
soul.
370. Broken is the breath in which we communicate. Your
voice is a muted television set. I produced a silent film
in your memory. The remainder of my vision is outlined in
the mix of all that has been placed on these pages. It
feels like melodramatic architecture of the hand. It’s the
only feeling my heart adores.

371. Another snow storm crushes Long Island. Hail smacks

across my face. Wind chimes tremble on the front
porch. This is a North East American tragedy. A season of
storms that create the most painful outlook on
life. Misjudge my direction. The distance between you and
I are measured in miles across vast darkness in deep
solitude. I won’t bawl a tremendous hurt as a moth trying
to keep warm lands on my lap top screen. Hey moth, you can
be my sacred friend for the night. I can talk to you till
the break of sunlight. You must never fly away from
me. Never mistake me for a fiend. I’m addicted to the
heart, soul, and mind. Moth, have you ever been misguided
by the letters of L, O, V, E? Evol love will only take us
so far.
372. If I were a better observer I would reckon your saliva
a poison. Venomous like a snake? Liquored like a
drunk? Such poison potentially made poise on spine; erect
like New York City skyscrapers. How does a man stand on his
own two feet after years of disillusionment? This blunt
black pulsating muscle deserves answers!
373. A cemetery of spiders on my ceiling. The burial
ground for the dead. Tombstones along the corners of a pale
shaded wall. A reminder of our last days before the
apocalypse. The anatomy of spirits hinder a silver truth in
the moon. Thus, the world is a spinning template of quaint
impulsive insight belonging to the always descending stars.

374. The stars will shine down tonight on Long Island with
constellations autographing the night sky. The signature
replaces my name. And if we are to diverge, the stars will
fade behind the curtain.

375. Broken windows and window pain. Rain drops and

tears. Spring and chocolate. The death of winter. Trees
 30.

and flowers. Everyone dances. We are alone and at the same

time together.

376. The innocuous are full of rage.

377. The red sun burns on this spring day like the burning
of a broken heart. Isn’t it wonderful how the sun shines so
bright? I find myself alone on this beautiful day. Alone
and feeling the blues of the sky. Soon the sun will fade
and so will life from memory.
378. A writer’s pen is equivalent to a painter’s brush. I
perceive similarities between Dali and Bukowski through the
images; both shocking and sad. If I could only get things
right, maybe I’ll be up there with the best. But if not, at
least you know I’ve tried.
379. It’s the deep blue eyes of the ocean that gets me
every time. I’m swallowed by the sea. Only, I don’t
drown. I swim with schools of fish to the depths of the
black ocean discussing physics, philosophy, cinema, and
literature. Then I realize I can’t come up for air.
380. Modern men speak muted voice, not a soul can hear his
thoughts. Premonitions of the spirit. There’s a holy war
between the heart and mind.

381. I’m still growing as a writer like a budding tree or a

blooming flower. These lines are examinations of my
heart. Each time they are different. How many pages makes
up eternity?

382. Where is love tonight? Is it hiding in the cocoa bean

jar? Or is it soaking like a starfish in the bluish sea?
383. Pictures of a landscape painted on my mind like a
Robert Frost poem. I want to be one with the sun and shine
down on people that need to be shined on. I’d like to
become the landscape that flashes in my mind.
384. In my car I sit alone and write. My eyes are weary
but I’m feeling better. I wait for a bumblebee to buzz on
by; listening to the Deftones. Stars are blaring down. The
streets are empty and morose.

385. Words flow out like water from the shower head and I
drench these pages with large letters and scribbled
thoughts. Hypergraphia sets in and everything is
intensified around me. The curtain of night falls on my
head.

386. When birds chirp I hear them have conversations of the

winter season and when they fly south they will vacation at
the beach drinking martinis and eating earth worms.
 31.

387. The high grass that dances at the beach brushes

against the edges of my heart. It has been broken. It
heals slowly. How? Perhaps the seagulls know. I’ll ask
them.

388. Show your face so I can pay for dinner and take you
back to my room and kiss you till the early morning dew
settles on our lips.
389. Weeping soul sleeps under a weeping willow tree. Are
your tears seen? If I bury you, could you blossom the truth
that I’ve been waiting for? Perhaps you could sing spring
songs into my ears.
390. I sit at Bayport beach and watch the waves crash to
the shoreline. The breeze is cool on my face while seagulls
are perched on the dock. All the cars are parked in a
parking lot and are merely here for the shortness of an eye
blink.
391. The sunlight thrashes down on my head and the solar
eclipse of my soul stays lit. My shoulders are getting hot
like Citizen Cope’s 107 degrees. The afternoon is steady
calm for the first time in a while.
392. How many tears make up the ocean? How many cries is a
call for help? The people of this world...the people of
this world only know silence. Drink up the swollen
sea. Swallow every piece of the mountain and let it go...

393. When the pain begins to be unbearable, raise your

hands toward the sky and pray for inner peace. All the
worries, all the sorrows, all the borrowed words can’t
prevent action.

394. The mirror reflects the image of a face with blue

eyes, brown hair, and fair white skin. The soul can be seen
through the telescope of the eyes. Look at what we find;
it’s a man with passions of literary legacy. I wonder if
Herman Melville felt the same way...

395. Gone, gone, gone; forever lost between sky and sand
and all the beaches on Long Island will erode to the sounds
of your voice. Our eyes begin to fade with the sun and the
minute you realize that you miss me; you’ll be asking for
more, more, more.

396. Is there peace on this earth? Are we forever

doomed? The wind bashes against my windshield. The sun
begins to peek out from the clouds. Today is passing ever
so quickly. If only these days weren’t rushing by so damn
fast. I’m back at point A. Where to begin?
 32.

397. Loneliness is a place where the heart cries. One day,

I’ll learn to forgive. Until then, I’ll remain writing.
398. May the world forever become your instrument where the
notes hit perfect melodious chords and your eyes beam toward
the heavens above creating electrical storms in midnight and
how I sit back and peer across The Great South Bay as the
currents of a natural beast smothers whole images of life;
yet I may listen for an overture scored by a silent composer
of wanted dreams...

399. What a blunder it is to comprehend the true nature of

the mind. The universe and all its probabilities,
possibilities, and facts lead me to question fiction. Rain
drops fall on this spring evening. Why hasn’t the sky
crumbled yet? Forces have not allowed such mishaps to
occur. Chaos comes from the human mind. Does the mind =
universe? No reasoning would conclude to a logical
understanding. Why listen to me? I’m as absurd as the next
guy trying to make sense out of impossible
questions. Sometimes when I glare into space and focus my
eyes on the stars, I wonder about the possibilities of the
self. One must grasp a partial understanding of oneself
before concluding anything outside of the clouds. Yet,
partial truth of the self is what causes such irrational
madness. To an unborn child there is no such concept of a
universe. The brain is a mere figment of imagination. Yet,
even so, the universe exists for us. Can the mind be the
true example of the expanding universe? Look to the stars,
look to the stars!
400. The physical world is nothing but comprehension of man
made definitions to their objects.

401. Let the rebels sing out glorious chants that make
revolutionary sounds of a manifesto so incredibly inspiring
that even the greatest minds applaud in bewilderment.
402. He knows so much of everything. He cannot focus. One
must break down what one needs not apply. He is a man of
contemplation. He is a man of seldom words.
403. I sit alone tonight awakened by a revelation. I can’t
even speak. I have never been a man of luck. I must earn
this dream.

404. Love is like diving from the stars head first.

405. If I were to walk through a forest, I would take a
back pack full of books and a journal. I would travel
through the deepest of memories in search for something
greater than now and all the while I would think of loved
ones. I would search to improve not only myself but society
 33.

as a whole. Through knowledge, awareness, and possibly

experience.
406. I forgot how it was to be a child and fearless. So
many responsibilities are debilitating to the human
anatomy. When people grow up they quickly try to take back
their youth.
407. A large black space too keen for the eyes; all
memories halt and yield in silence. Temperatures incredibly
hot; a single mass the size of nothing burns, burning,
burning, burning. The mass explodes condensing into
molecular structures.
408. My has this emptiness filled the air. Solidarity
holds true. I am a single cell of natural disasters.

409. Her eyes are sharp like the corners of a marble

counter top that impales the secrets of my skin.
410. We communicate in a tongue twister of heavenly
misconceptions.

411. Avenues beyond comprehension; subconscious reflections

of the inner beast. No direction living on the
Island. Stuck in a wild world. The telephone rings again
and again. No one picks up. The answer machine displays a
hidden message. Then I fall asleep.

412. Many moons will rise before we see the truth within
ourselves.
413. Evolution of humanity is forgotten amongst noble
theories.

414. Sacrifice your best intentions and watch everything

that’s close to you burn in a spit of fire. The red and
orange flames will smother all prized possessions, stripping
you of every claim to happiness. Now, go rot in ash and
figure a way out of this nightmare.

415. Where cities burn a calamity dwells; a mother cries, a

widow prays, a pauper begs, a sinner lies.
416. Where nations crumble a sigh is heard. Economy built
in a dream will die. The screams are long and full of
blood.
417. Minutes on a linear clock moves forward without the
slightest hesitation until hours approach a night where
shooting stars encapsulate time with a BANG; an explosion
that meets the standards of two birds with a love song.
 34.

418. Telepathic sudden movements helps escape the

day. Fall asunder. The schemes of America have jaded every
last one of us. My nephew still believes in Spiderman; a
true superhero, as long as Spiderman continues to save.

419. Sometimes one waits for an answer but all one receives
is an empty void of anticipation.
420. I follow footsteps into a graveyard that resembles my
bedroom. I rest upon sheets of comfort and swiftly fall
into eight hours of sleep.

421. Graffiti back walls of supermarkets tagging lines of

the spoiled generation.
422. I blow a big hoot like an owl so the nocturnal night
knows that my heart is surrendering to the moon.

423. Somewhere there’s a staircase that leads to vertical

dreams.
424. Draw me with a pencil into your arms and our lips will
never erase such a masterpiece.

425. Your hands are the hands of carpenters; rough like the
sea. Tonight I watch the fog roll in past eternity.
426. Blow wind, blow against the American heart which is
strong and rough like hurricanes in the deep Atlantic.

427. Within the flesh of summer, dragonflies zoom by; a

windy heat storm. Roses remain still.
428. Black ant on porch trickles by with the might of an
elephant. Your feet are better than mine because you can
climb up walls.
429. I whisper for a moment; phrases unheard to intelligent
beings. Out comes symbols of imagination. Music.

430. I explode in original form; blast into mid

July. Summer rockets glide against a silver sky.
431. The phone calls are lost between airwaves and
electrical patterns. Yet, her voice still resonates within
my ear.

432. I need a compass because she sends my heart in

different directions.
433. The clouds are broken now; a hint of blue shines
through. Mosquitos are out for their supper. My evening is
a cut tulip from the stem of my well-being.
 35.

434. Expression in self confession is a lesson in life.

435. The world is a plight form of being. Not that I’m a
nihilist or anything but I exist only as a literate
molecule.
436. The critic: Insecure, must put down others to feel
better about oneself; get paid to mentally burn an
artist. Now, no one will write a review...

437. Only the flawless survive. I have more blemishes than

the moon’s surface. My wings are broken like an
insignificant bird. I slouch over as if I were the Hunch
Back of Notre Dame; walking yet barely breathing.

438. I spend most of my time in my bedroom writing

constantly about this thing called the human spirit. I have
to venture out into the world.
439. Ay! The beautiful are abandoned by the turning of the
page.

440. Summer storms begin with internal misconceptions of

the night sky and all of the people watch the stars die in
the midst of heaven’s downpour.
441. Slow light, soft morning dew, lost; forgotten in the
twilight.
442. Some escape the pain of life but most accept
it. Death begins during early birth of a womb. A child is
invincible. This world is a brash tomb of existence; a
burden of the heart when time is a burden to light.
443. I drive beyond roads that may lead to my final
extinction.
444. This is a place for my mind to wander; my thoughts and
crazy ideas take form. Who has ever made sense? Long ago,
I realized I’m just a breath before a final exhalation. I
will contribute all that I have to offer before the end of
this day.
445. Density doesn’t equate to destiny. The mass of a rose
won’t result in a heart exhilarating earthquake. The sun
will never fade like the ink from my pen because it’s your
eyes that makes my sun rise.
446. Muddy mountain tops damp as the dew in winter; lonely
like children in orphan homes. Silent. Silent. Silent.

447. A long time ago a fisherman sailed and engulfed this

island fish where I dwell. Today is a mark of
living. Yesterday was a breath of life.
 36.

448. In the belly, hunger drives inside, the starving

sensation that awakens truth.
449. Scribble me this, scribble me that; who’s afraid of
the big black rat?

450. Rest upon me simple sky; clouds of cotton, lazy blue

silence.
451. Standing on a rock, the swoosh of waterfalls pour down
clarity in New Paltz.

452. Sometimes we dream parallel to reality and it forms on

the exterior of the sky.
453. An hour ago I was stunned by television.

454. My mind is but a vast ocean of seaweed.

455. Who paints the velvet sky? Taper moons a distant
cry. Birth of seasons. This may leave me alone under the
tragic bleak stars.

456. I can barely speak; the words are like a ball of fire
that burns my throat.
457. These modern times has me thinking about why I’m
here. Who am I? A poet never knows until the day of the
divine.

458. Missed memories; shallow water protects the coin in

which you made your wish.
459. Black angels of death; stark night of E-motionless
winds. Go fly into the fury.

460. May the oceans glisten and starry nights whistle light
beams to the shadow creek earth in tipsy-turvy time; may
song birds flock toward the end of land and their heavy
wings open like angels; may my brittle bones remain tough
through such lavish ignorance as rain drops increase heavily
with the tilt shift of climate; may her eyes forever
fertilize the dirt I trudge upon creating yellow flowers
till the end of land; may our dreams form clouds not only in
the mind but also in the air and let it snow victoriously
our engagements for the future. This night will become
solid ground for skeletons while they bury every last word I
present with my heart.
461. There’s something brilliant about the water as I look
out at the million dollar mansions stretched across the
coast of Bayport beach. And as I write in poverty, I wonder
how it feels to be on top of the world...
 37.

462. The complexion of the sky is a vast blue entity of

hope. All my worries will one day fade behind the horizon
with the tumultuous sun.
463. God, I miss Brooklyn.

464. Rain drops fall and our dreams are measured by the
music man’s hands as he envisions notations that encompass
his imagination.
465. A poet dreams in the immensity of night; all reasons
to exist and become illuminated in the sky.
466. Who will be the one on the block to spark the
flame? Engrave symbols on generations to come.
467. Fear nothing for this world is determined by the laws
of a peculiar mind.
468. Each and everyone of us are built on the assumption
that we are free to roam, free to speak, free to judge. But
what has become reality is that we have become limited with
our freedoms. I am the true patriot; the one who writes
with intentions to change that which seems unchangeable.
469. Ideas fill the lungs like the dreams inside my head.
470. Silence is a simple act of observation.

471. When in doubt, everyone turns to a philosopher’s

thoughts.
472. Human nature has become ugly. It’s immoral,
unethical, and incredibly fucked.

473. Mind seems free but not entirely. Don’t hold back!
474. Alone in my corner in the shadows with a Blue Point
beer (tastes like wonder).

475. All dreams spawn from a seed in the mind. It grows

with the years. It grows, and grows, and grows, and
grows. There’s no such thing as cutting down the dream
because it’s intangible till the day when it manifests in
your hands.

476. How many stars comprise the empty universe?

477. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth, hands = five senses of
nonsense.
478. The mind acts when the spirit speaks.
 38.

479. Sun fades. The Long Island Sound whispers in

ripples. I hear the crashing waves against the
shoreline. Birds dip down to the clear water. Lights
across the way to Connecticut glimmer at the
forefront. We’re on the East End, finally without a care in
the world.
480. Rain drops dribble down a window pane. Street lights
ignite a world when its lonely face is sparked. Cars are
parked. People stare at the misdirected youth. But their
lives are just as misdirected.

481. I love your weird habit of sniffing books...

482. When a person’s solar system crosses another person’s
solar system, they consume double the energy and ignite a
burning flame in the infinite blackness. Let this be the
spark that guides you.
483. Molecular structures of the infinitely small
constructs the foundation of the human soul.
484. Sublime mind from ice to gas!

485. With the breath of this second I can hear the melodic
strums of guitars swirling the sea in my head; all of this
will coalesce into an infinite world of wonder. O’ how the
brain becomes lubricated.

486. Go eat a pizza 3.14.

487. You must be out of your radiohead if you think I don’t
love how you smell.
488. Our generation are full of liars, hustlers, and
cheaters all attempting to suck on the will of the
people. Has something as common as money fueled the beast?
489. Creators create creations only to create chaos.

490. All of my hopes could be summed up with a bottle of

booze and a philosophical inquiry about the passion to
write.
491. My father sees imaginary flies.

492. At the Sage, I drink red wine for all the pages that
have surrendered to the garbage can; dead sentences, lost
punctuation, all lay as corpses. Salud to the old
manuscript!
493. If the moon should fall from the sky, I’ll open my
hands to catch it.
 39.

494. If the sky were water we’d be deep sea fish.

495. You ever hear of Whitman? You ever hear of
Hemingway? You ever hear of Kerouac? You ever hear of
Neruda? You ever hear of Cummings? You ever hear of Wolfe
(Both Tom and Thomas), You ever hear of Bukowski? You ever
hear of Ginsberg? You ever hear of Thoreau? You ever hear
of Emerson? You ever hear of Rilke? You ever hear of
Joyce? You ever hear of Kipling? You ever hear of
Hesse? You ever hear of Borges? You ever heard of
Steinbeck? You ever hear of Fitzgerald? You ever heard of
Miller (both Henry and Arthur), You ever hear of...Digiosa?
496. It’s a pistachio bowl universe, I tell you.

497. I’m traveling the train to Manhattan with the world

hustling to and fro the mass transit of life.
498. The window reflects a face I almost forgot was there.
499. Of the animals that roam the earth, I am the greatest
beast of them all!
500. I turn to thee to sing of solace, of verse that
lingers in autumn; unnoticed. A working man’s hands
trembles with fright; of the loneliness and fear all dressed
with plight. Tis night when the coo caws, tis night when
the song is heard.
501. What we know of this culture culminates in various
ways: 1) The status quo is becoming ever more difficult to
stomach. 2) Wars are the by product of ego religion and ego
politics and the bleakness of a lacking self worth. 3) Life
and death are in unison with each other.
502. Dead poets raised me to be...
503. Amongst the dwellers of this land we are marching
robots of American society. Tonight I will break out of my
shell.
504. This bleak moment has you walking in measurements.
505. Explore yourself by looking at the stars and realize
that anything is possible.
506. I will bank on the idea that there is life on other
worlds. And if this proves true, I will be the great
predictor of mankind!

507. O’ beautiful flower with your fancy hat; I love how

you salsa in the wind.
508. The night falls before the last step into the future.
 40.

509. Red hot summer heat of day forgive me for falling in

love with my air conditioner.
510. An ant jumps over wood-chips working hard to get to
his destination. I remind it of the ever so exhausting
thought, "It’s not the destination, it’s the journey." The
ant continues on without hesitation. Then I remember the
ant doesn’t understand English.
511. How I break when the sky turns gray. I break for the
nearest exit.

512. The past, the present, and the future are all based
off of conscious perception. I doubt the universe even
cares...
513. The sun and the clouds represent opportunities.

514. A dog stares at me through a window and somehow knows

my inner thoughts.
515. In solitude there’s a certain amount of peace that
brings me back to my main objective: Create and illuminate!

516. Somewhere in the bottom of the ocean there’s an unread

message in a bottle. A drowned ancient artifact of love.
517. Inside a seashell is a reason to believe in the
almighty powerful vibration of life.

518. A ferry tries to escape a flash of lightning and the

relentless boom of thunder.
519. Fleeting thoughts escape consciousness with every
blink of the eyes.

520. All that I am is a result of you.

521. When you’re honest with yourself the truth will find
you.

522. I’ve been keeping these journals for years now. Each
one explaining the very essence of my spontaneous
self. There’s truth in the chaos of fragmented thoughts;
the only truth that’s worth reading.

523. We dream in the night so that our eyes can rest itself
from the horror of day.
524. In the evening we sleep like giants.
525. A mid day beer in New York City may actually keep a
man sane. With so many people walking the streets at noon,
 41.

I soon forget the reason why I’m here. If only any of us

could understand the point in all of this. All of
this? This here living. So many of my old friends went
down by the hands of time. Time is relative to
consciousness. I too, one day, will succumb. So will you.

526. No one understands their lives, they only think they

do.
527. Not even a million page manuscript could explain your
intolerance.

528. Shadows on the floor mimic reality.

529. Don’t speak unless the dream is ready to seep from
your lips.

530. The ugly comparison between you and I are that our
fault lines run down the palm of our hands like tectonic
plates.
531. Tell me, are you fulfilled in your life?

532. This is the day we walk through imaginary walls just

so our words can be heard.
533. When we breathe, we feel the ocean within our hearts
and all the seashells can determine the value of our
existence.

534. In the world we are traveling jesters poking fun at

the hardships that life presents.
535. How will the world end? Exist on a question.

536. Instant gratification is a false truth.

537. In a single atom there’s a truth to the vast
universe. Comparing the quantum world to the incredibly
large is significant in understanding the nature of human
evolution.
538. Seagulls float by fading clouds with only a slight
push of the breeze.
539. Red glare of the sun burning forever in our hearts as
water droplets pound against the shell of our eyes.
540. At the beach I observe seagulls perched on top of wood
railings waiting for someone to throw food at them. It
reminds me of the homeless in New York City waiting for
their final meal.
 42.

541. I don’t understand anyone anymore. Everyone seems to

be spiraling down the hole.
542. Hail to the halo around heads of the smitten. My mind
is like a tropical storm. Your heart is like a
hurricane. Let the media broadcast personal weather so that
others can watch for the change. Veins like rivers that
lead to a sea of eternity. We are boats directed to an
abyss of red wine. A tidal wave for your smile. Rain drops
trickle down cheeks. I am punch drunk before the surge of
atmospheric tension.

543. Nocturnal night, where have you been? Lost souls weep
like lepers. She is a frozen flower in the soil. She
cannot be touched. A banana sliced moon is half lit for you
and I. Sleepers will never understand but they will try to
listen in their dreams. She is designed to make men
blunder. Fall like autumn. Conclusion to a long winter
night.
544. Manufactured thought produces a voice unlike I’ve ever
heard. Blare violet across airwaves. Diction less
quality. I’d rather listen to you sing blunt utterances out
of tune. Birds would rather squawk than whistle. I faint
against a black background and arrive anew in a white
heaven; pearls for gates. Up there everyone hits the right
notes even when they don’t speak.
545. Black skies engulf American towns from coast to
coast. Streetlights glisten desolate sorrow against
asphalt. Windows are half cracked for a chance to
breathe. Chance was what we were amongst lovers. But we
lacked communication. Somewhere in the Midwest hearts are
breaking; and I sit here understanding their misery.

546. Paint the ocean with an envelope and a bottle. Inside

is a note that contributes to the unknown sea. Comatose
mislead words are like the ones I present here. I might as
well have been a blurred photograph. Misconception of the
senses. All has been and all will be but for you and
I...all is numb.
547. Panoramic view of the landscape. A sight sung
desperado. How unworthy lives combust with a head
thrust. Bene-violence almost as happy as it appears on
paper but a little more dangerous than obscurity. Eye am
your natural FOCUS.
558. Thus the scars resemble a belt around the solar
system. It doesn’t mean I should conform. It’s a mere
reaction of a blanket of snow. I’ve been missed by the
world. I haven’t prayed in a long hour. Misplaced between
heaven and hell. I sought to seek where I’ve been for so
 43.

long. 4 so long eye 8 enormous vision because you stand

approximately inches from measurement. Now, there isn’t
anything I can do but wait; wait in seconds, the reasons we
split like bananas. We’re determined by conclusive evidence
that we weren’t meant to be.

559. Dummy stars across a blank white screen causes the

mind to acknowledge the very mystery of our
existence. Evolution of heart and soul evaluate personal
being the one. Solution B that A simple man can’t control
your alphabetical process. We collide atoms and
molecules. Birth till death and everything in between is
one large conceptual malfunction.
560. In the mind of god there is you and the everlasting
spiritual energy.

561. My sanity is more important than the agendas of other

people.
562. The cold autumn sky fades into a state of
blackness. Down the road I view cars driving by. My eyes
grow tired. I can still smell the stench of stale alcohol
on my breath. I yawn as I write. When dawn appears, I’ll
be a changed man both physically and spiritually.
563. A man with a vision should not be tampered with.
564. Our beliefs are embedded in our brains and they
subconsciously seep out with a slur of the tongue. These
words effect the world around us even when we don’t think
so. Each person vibrates in a certain frequency. This
potential energy can create massive explosions. Do we ever
make the right decisions?

565. I sit and reflect. The sky is blue and orange. The
sun is destined for sleep and tip toes down the staircase of
time. I sip water and feel it drip down the walls of my
stomach. Inside, the solar system revolves around the
reasons for anatomy. Bones and guts are starlit galactic
matter. My breath serves as a law for gravity. Mind and
god sleep in a bed together.
566. Thinking has become an art. It takes time to
understand the fundamentals of literature. This time is
spent studying, reflecting, and soaking in great bodies by
great authors. Thus, I learn I’m nowhere fulfilled.
567. If you have a burning desire deep down in your stomach
for something then you must fight like a golden gloves
champion. Don’t let the opportunist stop you. The power of
the mind is capable of destroying fear and doubt.
 44.

568. Sedimentary patterns of existing particles developed

by the ocean’s current reminds me of the levels of the
deeper self. It coexists with the levels of sand on South
Shore beaches.

569. Everyone has learned to hate themselves. I look

around and see the desolation on so many faces. Don’t they
understand that they’re good enough? The country has beaten
down every young American. How do the less fortunate
survive? By the will of the pen. Never give up on your
art!

570. Meditation releases subconscious chaos brought upon by

societal standards. This meditation draws into the lung
only the necessity it needs. Everything else is a
waste. Waste is productively a product of excess; too much,
unnecessary. Clear the weeds in the field and feel freedom
lift your weighted soul.
571. I’m a ball of contradictions. Anyone who says
otherwise has never grown as a human being.
572. A human being should always evolve into infinite
possibilities. No one is inherently perfect. Perfection is
near impossible. Yet, sometimes, the impossible is
reachable.
573. People tend to forget that we’re merely sophisticated
animals. Sophisticated? Well, isn’t that up for
interpretation.
574. Abstraction of world desire; spontaneous flow of
thought.

575. The cigarette burns. A woman walks to the bathroom as

a man eyes her down. He pulls out a .22 caliber, sets it on
the table and leans back on the chair. He realizes that
even his bullets can’t stop the swagger of a beautiful
woman.

576. I’m visiting in this little town of Clark Summit,

Pennsylvania. Snowflakes flurry down from an overcast
sky. It sticks to pine trees and melts as it bombards the
surface. My nephew sleeps in the bedroom as the hum of the
heater captures my attention. There’s a precious quiet in
this town. A quiet only a New Yorker could appreciate.

577. A mailbox stands in the frosty freezing cold;

assaulted by snowflakes.
578. For those who once knew me when I was young and
cheerful and somewhat charming, let me tell you that I have
changed over the years. I changed into a man with a serious
 45.

face. A blank face that speaks a thousand words. It is to

become a literary figure. A man with more intentions than
mere fame. A man ready to be a legend.
579. Haven’t you ever wanted to do something significant
just to show someone else that you aren’t full of
shit? That you’re more than they think you are? Get to
work.
580. I battle the ego everyday of my life.

581. Capture thoughts in a journal like a time capsule so

that when reflected back on one can re-examine their
character.
582. Negotiate with people who understand the logic of an
argument. For everyone else, just simply nod your head in
agreement.
583. Winter settles in. The stars are out tonight. The
lights are dim. The shadow of the pen mimics my hand.
584. Life is meant for us to understand visions. Visions
that see beyond the physical dimension. We are
multi-layered and are ready to begin a path that goes beyond
the here and now.
585. As the temperature drops, the beat of my heart
slows down. There are dreams pulsating from the third
eye. I grasp them in my hands. I hold them tight. So
tight that they never fade. Why should they? This world is
ours for the taken!
586. Artists belong in the sea where waves break to
shoreline. The artist is full of seaweed.
587. We are all human. The soul is the same. No one is
different. Yet, everything turns out to be a game.
588. The way we live our lives is more complicated than one
can imagine.
589. Writers want to be published so they can bring forth
expressed change. Change that will tell the world that
things are okay.

590. Believe in a dream. Believe! Believe! The world is

ours! The world is ours!
591. Sailboats float out into the bay. The foam
drifts. The sun beats down on my back and the cool autumn
breeze kisses me hello.
 46.

592. In this space there are objects. I exist only as a

man with seldom words. I become lost amongst the crowd. As
time moves forward, these thoughts remain only as
interesting as you let them.

593. Go write your problems away even on a sunny day. A

duck just sits and drifts at bay knowing that a lazy day
will wash all the misery away.
594. With a delicate body she is a silk swan in morning
sunlight dripping honey. Autumn leaves fall as the taste of
candy apples are devoured by purple lips.
595. How many hours pass before we understand that a lie
isn’t a sweet romance but a modern epic
tragedy? Shakespeare wrote plays on our lives; predicted
our future and knew that man was only capable of
destruction.
596. By the time you read this I’ll be just a memory in the
shade or a figment of facts; an interesting thought, I
know. By the time you see me, we’ll be vibrating on
different frequencies and all the angels will march to the
pulse of our aggravated lives.
597. Holy soul, mother of self, god of will, hope of angel;
dream, dream, breathe, breathe, pray, pray...for peace.
598. Streetlights cast shadows on my journal. I wait in my
car anticipating the future. Tomorrow will inevitably
arrive, with or without me.
599. The silent air mourns the death of another friend. I
return to my safe haven at Bayport beach and stare out into
the bay. Clouds are gray. The hum of a boat’s engine rings
out in the distance. I have many fears today. Fears of my
past. Doubts of my future. Fears of my loneliness. It’s
all irrelevant when you look at things on an infinite
scale. The conscious mind will always be burdened by the
present moment. It’s the end of September. Where will I be
tomorrow?
600. Dictionary defined the essence of my language.
601. Angels are dressed in silver cloth drinking champagne
and getting loopy with the saints.

602. Symmetric butterfly in a(symmetry) of time.

603. Infinite is the soul that seeks.
604. A blank page is not so blank anymore. All the people
drink their beers trying to get loose on this Saturday
 47.

night. Lights flash. Dazzling money. The trumpet player

blasts C notes into the air. It reminds me of old books
written by Jack Kerouac. Only at the Sage Cafe do memories
of ol’ drunken poets ring a ding ding in my ears.

605. Imagine every person using their minds to its fullest

potential? The amount of energy could create an implosion
of soul like a black hole forming; all light surrendering to
the consistency of attractive thoughts. This would be
utopia.

606. If I write one good poem before I die, then I’ve done
my job.
607. These thoughts manifest into a ball of ideas that,
when thrown at a wall, splatters into magnificent CrEAtioNs.

608. Writers write. Everyone else just waits for the

outcome.
609. The simple mind evolves into all forms of innocence.
610. Across the way I view a window. The night sky creeps
in. I drink a beer and wait for the silence. Eventually
everything around me turns to silence in due time. The
seasons are a reflection of the cycle that keeps us enclosed
in a sphere of mishaps till one day we break free from the
cycle.

611. What compels me to write all the time? A higher

dimension, perhaps?
612. Einstein devised a plan for the human spirit.

613. One day I’ll learn to date these pages.

614. In spirit I am.
615. People of the social zoo wander through space as
emotional cannibals devouring personalities for personal
gain.
616. In the very essence of my being I have learned to
accept my place as a creative entity.
617. I sit at a wooden table writing simple words for
pleasure knowing not what comes next but knowing that I’ll
eventually be there.
618. I want to know everything that this universe has to
offer!

619. Why do we find beauty in autumn when leaves are dying?

 48.

620. Examine the world closely and recognize the detailed

portion of your life.

621. How to overcome fear? Just know that legacy is always

an option.
622. Heaven is in the break of the waves. Heaven is in the
howl of the wind. Heaven is the breath of morning.

623. Have you ever wondered why seagulls cry with the
change in season? Maybe because they know that they may not
live to see spring.
624. The divine truth of self becomes blatantly obvious in
the mirror.

625. When I die, my journals will act as my

spirit. Whenever read, I will come back to life in the
physical entity of the mind.
626. So many ideas so little me.

627. A world so fascinating...by the time I wake tremors

will build in my heart as well as in the soil; illuminating
eyes like pure snow on ice cap soul. Angel, baby, baby,
honey, maybe I’ll meet you one day over there. Yes, over
there across the seas and everyone can dream in the
immensity of boisterous baffling envy. My feet stomp on
flowers as I walk by. But love, don’t you dare try to
forgive me and don’t you even dare even try walking out.
628. A dim room filled with candles creates shadows and
puppets on the walls; the same puppets as the American
people. Why are we so aloof? Why can’t we become more
aware? We remain perplexed and desensitized.
629 The animal has a desire to find and kill its prey. Too
bad the hunter shot the animal twice in the chest.

630. Fingertips tap into questions of the inner solar

system.
631. Urban gravel graffiti storm; tagging lines with
shades. Cold gray skies, bridges, subways, and the walk to
go with it.
632. Kinetic calamity yields gravitational luminosity.
633. The concrete walls are still dirty. Rats ridicule
reality. I watch as a million stars dwindle delightfully
away always appreciated by the interrogation.
634. Waiting...Patiently waiting for the next movement to
sweep the streets.
 49.

635. Walls of the cold subway enclosed by human

lives. Emotions relating to every inch of cement that
erects the structure.
636. People dream out of pain (either internal or
external). Turmoil dries a person’s appetite for glory if
they don’t transfer their energy.
637. The walrus and the ocean with waves the size of
backyard pools have been best friends for 3.5 billion years.

638. The sun bursts into my eyes blinding me from all

notions of sight and my pupils turn a yellow color.
639. Once again, an overcrowded train carries under paid
passengers. We just take it, right? Because that’s life,
right? I watch towns blur with the speed of the train. We
aren’t living the dream anymore. The dream is living
us. There isn’t a decent outcome.
640. Old earth. New birth.
641. Fifty degrees F in the heart of winter? Enter global
warming.
642. Man in black hole is ripped to shreds. His body turns
into mashed potatoes. Space-time eats him like a burrito.
643. Allegory of the subway --> some women aren’t as
innocent as they appear.
644. Relatives speaking of relativity while in relative
motion makes them relate to the reality of time.
645. If I were a bed, you’d be my blanket.

646. I’m warped through space-time to a place of brilliant

allusions; shapes that contort my eyes.
647. A bright sun that beams down on my head helps the
crust from my eyes diminish.
648. A pigeon’s wingspan is about as wide as my arms opened
for the sun.
649. Buried in the soil is a name. A name with a forgotten
face. Broken like the silence after the applause. How
death comes with a celebration one will never know. The
dream dies when people forget the name.
650. Barrels of snow flakes flicker down as children burst
from their front doors. Some build snowmen, others have a
snowball fight. Some even make snow angels. Families
 50.

embraced by millions of snow angels. Then comes a break in

the clouds. Shhh! Here comes the first rays of
sunlight. A shadow appears beyond a bare tree. Thousands
follow the sun’s procedure as melting icicles drop from roof
beams. The carpenter’s wife stirs hot cider. A feast is
prepared in the oven. The winter sun falls asleep. Forty
winks for the midnight sky. Stars of the solar mechanism
peak from an eternal shadow. The moon is like a bowl of
cookie dough ice cream. Howling winds disperse my train of
thought.

651. I’ve come to realize that I’m an observer of

magnificent skylines.
652. I watch lights flick on as the N train shoots us into
another universe.

653. Black stained eyes from every passenger on the

subway. We stare into space to relieve us from blunt
reality. Who can blame the one who wants to escape?
654. Parallel thought never seems to catch up in the
end. Thoughts run along side each other until infinity
decides to end.
655. Finally, the doors shut and the train moves. Tonight,
it snows with charming audacity. Brooklyn freezes tonight
and all the people rush home as wind smashes in their face.

656. The city snow earth is slushy, dirty, and corroded

with footprints. White clouds like cotton swabs, chilled
air, rotten lungs, burnt tongue, drinking demented angels as
acute angles; fifteen degrees colder than your heart from
this...The American nightmare. Starts. Stops.

657. Snow drifts in midnight madness where the world dances

wonderful nocturnal waltz.
658. The urban smoke filters in a tainted
atmosphere. Street cats smoke blunts on the corner of the
block. I eat pizza. I watch the boys get nasty with the
ladies. It’s the Brooklyn way.
659. Sitting on a brick deck drinking a cold Blue Point
beer with the 9th hole in my peripherals and the darting
black birds escaping the summer; waiting, I am always
waiting for an arrival. Bukowski said, "Love is a dog from
hell," and I believe him sometimes because the fiery pits of
hell always burns, always waits for the next arrival. I am
the dog from hell. I smoke Capone cigars; they make my
taste buds feel comforted for the time being. The smoke
hits the sky and escapes like summer birds.
 51.

660. Scribble lines of desperation. Ask yourself

permission to transfer thoughts into emotions.

661. After all it’s September and if that’s not enough I’m
waiting for the big change; whatever that may be. Perhaps
I’ll grow into a man with the coming of autumn. If not, my
eyes will tell it all with a dozen fatal teardrops mirrored
as autumn rain. These are perilous clouds amongst our
sleepless nights in the drunken stupor. Terrible words act
as knives cutting deep into the flesh.
662. This place is too familiar; the dull streetlight
glowing. Faces are all the same here. I am more like them
except I’m the one with the pen.

663. It’s me and my girl on a plane headed west to San

Diego. There’s a heavy overcast outside the window with the
face of god looking down on fresh pillows.
664. Silence goes the night. Spent all my money; nothing
to show but a few journals and some gray hair on my chin.

665. Between they and I is the sky. They, down there, so

small I call them microscopic amoebas. Up here I feel
god. Only, I sit on a rocket that launches me to my
destination.

666. Palm trees are in the distance. Pacific harbor is

just over the hill. Fresh Indian food lingers in the
California breeze. I rest my journal on the San Diego
Union-Tribune looking out at the everlasting blue skies.

667. Drinking a Crystal Pier Pale Ale down at Pacific beach

with a sudden notion that I can do anything I want with my
life.
668. The Pacific Ocean is a massive body of water that
stretches outward with no limitations. My words may echo
across if I scream. If I scream, my voice may echo or drown
with the Pacific fish.
669. My prose blows remarkable minds.
670. Blank pages like those who lose their stream of
consciousness in the middle of sentences or lose their minds
after four cans of beer; sipping on train heading east to
Ronkonkama with dreams rocking through beats; all must be a
vision. Across these eyes is sunrise and across my neck is
a golden chain necklace; hail to the mighty lord for he was
killed for people’s sins especially after we drink out in
BROOKLYN!
671. This journal is completely incoherent. I speak in
fragments especially after wine has set in and I prefer red
 52.

like genius blood. Hand holding pen begins to cramp as I

write absurd chicken scratch. Where’s the laptop or
typewriter when you need it?
672. Life has its up and downs, circles and lines. It’s a
wild ride; a roller coaster of emotions and events that make
me wonder about the external universe compared to the one
within.
673. Swan stuck in lake as the ice snow world manifests
from overcast sky.

674. Can’t escape the speed of light when it’s headed in

your direction? A bombardment of photons paints your body
tan.
675. Rid mind of ego and watch a wealth of knowledge pour
into your head.
676. I can’t see anything but solid mass of earth. Where
are the cities with their smoke and pipes like my great
grandfather when he came across the Atlantic from
Italy? Where are the cluttered roads that weave in and out
of consciousness? These roads lead us to places unknown.
677. Angels flurry down like snowflakes from the heavens
above.
678. Flying across America from New York to San Diego, I
realize that this country is one vast rock with dips and
valleys, peaks and rivers. From this point of view of god,
I learn a thing or two about geography. I become one with
the clouds in a Zen moment. I dream of this vast distance.

679. Profound visions of the future beam down from starlit

glimpses of hope.
680. Genius is marked by the ability to day dream.
681. Anything beyond me is never too far out of
reach. Millions of dreams fall from the inky black sky
every night. The ones who catch their dreams are the ones
who let go of mind and wait for the exhilarating sensation
of abundance. Each person is marked with the ability of
progression. Move on and free the mind.

682. There’s truth in recognizing one’s own fears and

doubts. One can smash the chains off the body if they are
willing to admit to their personal vices.
683. Breathe easily as you imagine yourself in far away
lands doing things you never thought of before.
 53.

684. Around my eyes are halos of charcoal. Sleep must come

to me tonight.
685. The red wine hits the lips. It tastes like red angels
flowing down the throat.

686. Sometimes in our most desperate times we understand

why we live.
687. Winter hits Long Island, yet again. The ice crystals
freeze our souls.

688. Under the orange sun spins a little rocky planet

called earth and on this planet are little roaming creatures
called humans and these humans are little and insignificant
compared to the rest of the universe but when you think of
it, these little insignificant creatures comprehend the
depths of this overwhelming universe, thus, these little
creatures called human beings are actually large and
extremely worthy of insight.
689. She clasps flowers in her hands and takes them to her
bedroom where a vase is displayed. She places the flowers
in the vase and waits for sunlight.
690. A red star and a blue moon makes for a purple night.
691. He speaks in allegories; speech patterns designed by
Dali like images.

692. In life I’ll become exactly what is intended for me.

693. Ideas fall from the sky like rain drops; it soaks into
green earth and blossoms an array of imaginary manuscripts.

694. Faith is in the belief of self. One who believes in

themselves can conquer the world.
695. O’ how the sea looks like my bathtub.

696. Red walls and dilated pupils envision a dream beyond

comprehension.
697. Value can be placed on the mind and it can be
deserving of many valuable thoughts.

698. There’s a burning desire inside me just waiting to

burst into flames and create the most compelling form of art
ever to be realized by the public.
699. Correlate the sun with your vision and watch how
bright the future becomes.
 54.

700. Our brains, although odd and unique, hold the answers
to our questions; they just have to brainstorm with the
heart.

701. Brain rains down puddles of ideas.

702. Poets fall from the sky; every last one of them
reaching for the stars.

703. Dive into the sea; a moon with lips caresses your
back. You feel comfortable, naked, alone until you realize
that the moon has eyes.
704. Even through all the struggle, all the torment, all
the lies, I somehow find my way out of the hole.

705. Drink the red kiss and reminisce.

706. Count on the many different ways you could stumble
upon the past.

707. Quite suddenly your mood changes when the waves of

jazz takes over the bay of your heart.
708. The poet is somehow convinced that his words will live
on forever.

709. To each person, their own difference.

710. From bliss to pain and from pain to bliss one can
never be sure of the way you’re going to feel. Take your
vulnerability and be one with it.

711. Confidence in the way you look can go a long way. But
appearance alone can’t change the chemistry that tinkers in
the brain.
712. At the bar people look at my wacky hair and think me
absurd. And they’re exactly right!
713. Eyes blurred by the past. Next time, we’ll plan
ahead.
714. About this time is when people start to stare. I take
out the journal and sip my beer.
715. There’s a phone number on a dollar bill. Should I
call it?
716. All I want is a harmonica for the broken blues.

717. My eyes are tired from work. My hands are cut and
bruised. This type of work is erroneous and debilitates the
natural self.
 55.

718. Is it just me or is the illuminati trying to take over

the world?

719. Time is irrelevant when your last breath approaches.

720. Life comes and goes instantaneously. Sometimes when
you blink you can see your life hurry on by.
721. Underneath the surface of these journals is a young
man in search of answers to the big questions in life. And
a constant handwritten page suggests that there are no
answers, just more questions. And the deeper you dig, the
further you’ll need a detailed explanation.
722. In the sky the sun begins to cry and clouds form bags
under her eyes. I see it as a way to cover up her natural
blemishes and scare away the ones that used to love.
723. Who may suffocate tonight? The people in the
cities? Or the people in the suburbs? Perhaps we are all
imbeciles choking on the dollar.

724. Most people are lost in the wilderness. Only very few
are found.
725. Flies have sex in mid air.

726. The first day is always the most hectic.

727. What I know of myself I have not known for years. I
feel a transformation within. It’s something that feels
innately inevitable. Goodbye adolescence.

728. New York City pigeons are more dangerous than heroin
driven murderers. The pigeons don’t give a fuck. They
crawl up to you while you eat a chicken burrito and examine
your every move. Beware of the hungry pigeon!

729. The artist lives in the chaos of his imagination.

730. She was born with burdens; heavy burdens. You could
see the pressure on her shoulders. She slouched and walked
slowly; always walking away from me.

731. We are relativity forgotten by sophisticated laws.

732. The moon pisses moonlight on the Atlantic Ocean; turns
the whole sea mellow yellow.
733. If you cut the Adam’s apple, watch it fall from the
tree. Tell Newton to watch out! Here comes gravity.
734. All drunks sleep at the bar; lonely, forgotten,
unheard. They count on poets, playwrights, and actors to
 56.

emulate character; to portray their vision. O’ how

beautiful the creation of the inner soul. How beautiful it
is!
735. Frank O’hara wrote about oranges. I talk about lemons
and how all the lemons in the world don’t know a damn thing
about living. They’re too bitter to try.
736. These days, no one wants to understand the art in
poetry, yet I continue to write with love and
honor. There’s some sort of truth in the way language
presents itself. I know at times I write with
absurdity. Most of my journals are too abstract for the
naked eye. Some would even conclude that they are down
right incoherent. That’s just my brain’s way of saying,
"Thank you for the freedom." Though, I’m no more
belligerent than a drunkard and society still deems them to
be human beings.
737. Why do people have to suffer on the city streets? I
pass a homeless man down on his luck with a sign that reads:
HUNGRY AND I HAVE HIV, PLEASE HELP. I pass him by without
any money to give him and now I feel sick. I’m sorry sir,
one day, I’m going to help people like you...one day.
738. People are dying like cigarette butts.
739. My face wears a mask of sadness. That’s because I’m
crying for all the lost souls of America.

740. Concrete earth colder than the month of February,

where’s your heart? The soul is in each individual till the
sun fades with age.

741. One thousand false artists can’t determine the truth

in your art.
742. Gypsy with the ice blue gems looks at the world like a
wandering angel.

743. Why have I been privileged to walk when others

can’t. I will attempt to walk righteously with a purpose.
744. Only in Manhattan does a woman feed her dog Poland
Spring water when a homeless man is dying of thirst.

745. The degradation of the human spirit spawns from lack

of imagination.
746. The old man’s skull is full of blotches and
blemishes. A red line looks like a valley on Mars. His
fading white hair is gelled to cover his fault lines.
 57.

747. At what point has man forgotten the essence of

morality?
748. It would be impossible to forget the thousands of
souls that drowned in concrete on that September
morning. That day shaped modernity.

749. Icons are always praised as inhuman.

750. These journals are kept for love not fortune. I want
you to know that these subconscious scribblings are exactly
the way I like them.
751. How many cells make up the face of poverty?
752. When we notice how significant our eyes are we tend to
view the world in a different light.

753. The long commute home makes me wonder, why such

distance between you and I?
754. There’s beauty in the electric current of light bulbs.

755. Flowers, hours, pedals, time.

756. She went to the store to purchase a bra and found
herself holding jugs of water.
757. Profound enlightenment can alter the mind state of any
human being.
758. When stars are born so is the reason to stare at them
and contemplate the very being of your existence.
759. When the oceans are overfilled, polluted with muck and
garbage that’s when the human race will spark an epiphany on
the state of their values.
760. Train delay! Train delay! As the world is delayed
from everything we once knew.

761. Flicker: Trees and houses, cars and people, days and
nights; all but a memory of the past.
762. Optical illusions by a simple slight of hand. We are
easily fooled. We are easily fucked.

763. "Excuse me passengers, we will be delayed. I’m sorry

for the inconvenience. If there’s a medic on the train,
report to cart three. I repeat, if there’s a medic on the
train, please report to cart three. Civilian on board the
train is in need of medical attention." I look to my left
and see a young medical student shiver in her green nursing
 58.

gown. A man in his spectacles rushes past me and exits the

cart.
764. The faster this train moves, the slower I see.
765. Like a flower; specifically a rose, your lips are the
taste of rain drops and the comfort of blankets. Your eyes
are windows into a deep tub of honey.
766. In loving memory of your ancient hands stretched
across my body like an explorer searching a foreign
continent walking fingertips down the avenues of my fault
lines until you reach the equator.
767. Out to sea, my friend, out to sea; by the hands that
built America.

768. Moonlight the dutch. A fire burns full of creative

inspiration. This is prosperity.
769. I can’t help but to think about my physical limits
here on this planet.

770. The dead poet. The living poet. The screaming

poet. The crying poet. The hip hop poet. The def
poet. The performance poet. The indecent poet. The lazy
poet. The righteous poet. The poet’s poet.
771. People disperse from Penn Station like particles of a
disintegrating cigarette.
772. Absurdity in modernity.
773. Who’s deep like an ocean’s mouth? I’m deeper than the
black abyss of the universe.

774. We race through this tunnel and I’ll be first to say

that time has become an asset to living.
775. Manhattan recedes in the distance illuminating lights
and dwindling dreams.
776. Streetlights dance in the night fog.
777. This is art in the purest of forms.

778. :..:.....::::..:::::....::Dots of human consciousness.

779. Get there boy. Get there and don’t stop even when
they laugh. Say no. Say yes. Say that it will be done.
780. Windy night, moonlight wearing big denim overalls on a
farm of American culture and the vultures can’t get
 59.

enough. I contemplate myself a thousand times over. Where

is the essence of my existence? I think it’s hiding in a
shoebox under my bed.
781. Eruption of the volcano. Our hearts explode
magnificent array of colors; the same colors that stain your
eyes.
782. Writing is purely an endurance art.
783. Dank walls closing in; halting human behavior.

784. Thousands of people on the New York City streets,

walking heads down. Some sit on the steps of Union
Square. Poets and artists encompass the area trying to
capture the last real sense of self.

785. How many more buildings can they construct in this

enormous city?
786. Our minds are the vehicles that represent the galactic
stars. Close your eyes and picture yourself on another
world. What do the creatures look like? Are they like us?

787. When one man dies does another star form?

788. Art is imitation of reality just prettier in color.
789. Beauty is in the deception of the eye.

790. It lurks from the stars and burns like a green comet
in the overwhelming sky. Let the people figure it out.
791. Some journals are meant to be discarded.

792. If the ink spills at dawn it will certainly dry by

dusk. You can smell the fragrance of musk left in your bed.
793. The train breezes by making my heart shatter like a
glass cup; all of my blood simply drained on the floor.

794. Look into my eyes owl of the world; my hands coiled

around the neck.
795. The world seems indifferent to the fact that it’s
always changing.

796. Millions of people scatter the halls of Penn Station

trying to get back to a place they call home. It’s a
tremendous catastrophe as bodies swerve in and out of other
bodies like a slalom ski race.

797. Avalanche of American society.

 60.

798. Complexity forms from a simple idea and drowns in a

pool of saturated thought.
799. Primitive man cannot speak the words of you and I, he
only hears gibberish like a dog.

800. Modern man suffocates under technological lust.

801. A voice says, "I gave you the dream but you didn’t do
what you were supposed to do." I think it’s time to
re-evaluate.

802. Look deep into my soul and witness the hurricanes wash
your worries away.
803. I’ve been serious about writing for quite some time
now. Even when my dreams begin to sink like the sun beneath
the circumference of the earth, I must trudge through muddy
water to that place where I find solace. It’s in the heart
and it’s in the tragic soul. These are the two places that
hold the treasure chest to your passions. Only when you tap
into the depths of those places will you realize the
threshold of your being.

804. I close my eyes and observe an inward galaxy impressed

by its own heavens.
805. Millions of rocks in the sky explode large
unbelievable imagination and as the moon wanes, the sun
gains; our hands will be clenched to the floor.
806. Born on the first month of the year in the arctic
cold, winter snowflakes drape the town and smothers the
land. I let out a whimper just to see the reaction of my
brothers...and boy could they tell that I’d one day be a
prodigy.
807. There’s a strange man walking on the clouds.
808. Sleep deprivation, mind unable to think, brain
receptors are numb to the world.
809. The silent moon is devastated by bombardments.
810. Love is what we feel on top of this brave moon
together.

811. Hello sunflower. These are a few words that I call

graveyard notations. They will one day be buried six feet
under the surface along with my skeleton.
812. The tiresome remain tired. The lonesome remain
lonesome.
 61.

813. I can’t begin to figure out why the stars align at

specific times into shapes we come to recognize. Birth of a
deity from the deepest black heavens sparkling comet dust on
our shoulders.
814. The world we live in is filled with temptation. It’s
consistent in our daily lives. To overcome temptation is to
master the art of deception.

815. Dimly lit rooms spawn contemplative patterns.

816. Conventional storms begin in early twilight. Rain
drops tap the sounds of canvas like the finishing heart of
love. My proverbial course in life is robust in
language. We speak excommunicated angels. Ten million dust
particles fill the lungs like cancer smoke in the
distance. I call you in midnight for some sort of healing,
then the hour is done.
817. Deep in the blue-green sea is a buried message. A
message of proclamation. A message to the human race. It
reads: Never think twice about your passion. The goal is to
fulfill the soul.
818. As I drive home in the pouring rain, I glance to my
left and see a ferocious bolt of lightning spark the sky; a
hint of blue tantalizes the dark clouds. A roaring rumble
of a growling thunder pummels a chattering
consciousness. She does not bare to care anymore...
819. There are billions of specs on the floor of the
train. Every single one of them represents a star in the
Milky Way. That’s a lot of life.
820. Deep slow rotating earth against a black backdrop
movie screen similar to million dollar Apollo projects
moving towards technological freedom; how free can a robot
be amongst the human race of programming gods so superior to
the world we tend to dominate all assumptions of a life
worth living and giving or perhaps even taking; taken
breath.
821. So many ideas so little pages. I make mistakes
because I am a man of inevitable learning.

822. All I know is that my reality is your illusion.

823. Truth in wine. The world sleeps tonight and lord I’m
sorry for exceeding my past. I’m sorry for giving in to
temptation and for being careless. The guilt is a thousand
pounds of bad karma. I don’t want to die yet...My emotions
may be playing with my head. I just want comfort. I long
for that comfort. I’m sorry. I repent my soul. I love
you.
 62.

824. Don’t think me different. Don’t think me worse.

825. Eye can see change in her heart; a vision for the
blind.
826. Streetlights compose the sidewalks. Homes with fences
on both sides of me. I walk alone to find myself wandering
in fantasy with every breath and every glance of the future.
827. Beyond the surface of this table are subatomic
particles violently vibrating together forming the stability
that holds my elbows and arms.
828. Tonight the stars call my name. Every time I howl at
the moon, creatures of earth peek out of their indolent
homes.

829. Tonight, I’ll be the richest man alive!

830. A quaint apartment with the world in perspective as I
look outside the window.
831. An empty beer bottle reminds me of lost men that
wander back roads to no destination. The destitute
singularity of a man unknown to this world can leave any
person reaching...
832. A boat is anchored in the bay. A gray mist sprays
across the land. A young man with a mustache collects his
thoughts as waves break to shoreline. It looks as though he
is holding onto an idea that’s been bothering him for months
on end. A seagull saunters the beach. Millions of sand
grains reminds me of how beautiful and infinite this
universe really is. The young man chases the seagull. The
seagull soars out into the distance, careless of the
memories of winter’s past. The young man leaves and I rest
my head back on the bench contemplating the clouds.
833. All this time I thought the end was near. It has
suddenly escaped me. It’s only the beginning!

834. How many miles is in this infinite loneliness? Does

it spark your interest?
835. The tragedy of our lives are encased in a glass vase.

836. I sit in the dark and wait for her to walk back into
my life.
837. The belly of the beast is about to explode and cause
panic throughout the city. No one will escape the pain and
sorrow of a natural disaster.
 63.

838. The last time I saw the snow drift I was just a kid
looking for an angel.

839. Recognize the eyes in the garden.

840. Across the bridge will be a place that will save me
and I run as fast as I can before it’s too late.
841. A half an hour ago I was missing your taste. But
you’ve gone sour to my desire.
842. I’m at you again, journal. The end of winter is here
and it’s still cold. There’s a full moon tonight. I
reflect on my journey.

843. Today I saw my father’s aging face. His skin is

losing his youth with wrinkles and invisible tears. What I
would give to save his knees and knuckles from the every day
torment.
844. All these journals will one day encapsulate my
existence.
845. In the rear-view mirror I see the shadows of
miscellaneous objects and the lonely streetlight remains
cold for one more night.

846. I sipped my ninety year old grandmother’s green potion

and in the matter of minutes I was a different man on a
different planet. My mother and father looked at me like
was losing it...and for a minute my mind flashed to Van Gogh
and I was worried that I wouldn’t come out of it. Toxic
control laughed. The numbness made me weak...then hours
later I was back and grateful to be here.
847. We sat in dialogue. We slept together, breath for
breath and tasted each others lips. I saw the stars in her
eyes. I knew it was true.

848. To me, you’re just a moment of silence waiting to be

heard.
849. What is art but the ruins of some poor soul’s
imagination.

850. Eyes are glaring at me from all corners of the room.

851. This writing thing better save my life because
everything is coming to a close and an artist is always
scared of the worst scenario. An artist needs the comfort
of the illuminating moon.
852. When all the days fade to black you will finally
realize what it means to be alone.
 64.

853. Sleep with destiny and meet your fate.

854. I read to pass the time away. There’s something
peculiar about Bukowski that inspires me. His filthy
language and his short prose stabs like a knife. He cuts
through all the bullshit. I should learn from him, not to
be him, but to feel the humility.
855. Hypergraphic man with glasses and red lips who kisses
with sudden truth when the world fills its belly with lies
and when will you realize that I have loved you from the
start?
856. My voice penetrates the sky like arrows and shoots the
whispering stars.

857. Man tugs on dog’s chain and pulls him in, away from
the sand, and the dog shits on the pavement by the
sidewalk. It splatters on the man’s shoes. Moral of the
story: Stop holding back!

858. Art lives in the water and sleeps on the beach. It

sings with the moon and eats brunch with those who care to
create.
859. Sometimes I wonder why I try so hard for her. It
boggles my mind. This trying stuff has turned me into a
push over. But what is kindness anymore?
860. The last of the last of the last goodbyes.
861. With every silent whisper of the bug and every lucid
dream there’s something that is familiar to all of us.
862. There are so many indifferent people. How did my
disposition get to this? I should have moxie. I should be
free.

863. If it isn’t then it obviously is.

864. In this tunnel with dim yellow lights guiding our
path, the only direction home is east of here and as we
escape this island a certain feeling of disclosed pressure
releases itself from the grips of my hands.

865. There’s only silence for a short amount of time but

within is the inner haiku, a rose bud, a whisper of
everything known and understood. Everything that is out
there is also in here; this place where memories
reside. Beyond the eyes that resemble oceans and the salty
taste of sea breeze is exactly where I want to be.
866. From here I can see the only truth worth
knowing. Sometimes I get fed up with redundant
 65.

conversation. And sometimes redundant conversation is

necessary to fill an awkward void.

867. Seven thousand sins that taste like knives and all I
want is to rid this torture. A sense of peace creeps
within. I think for the rest of my life I will offer my
eulogy.
868. Some people suggest alcohol causes more destruction
than marijuana yet there is a hint of divinity in both of
them. And those who explore will do so at their own
willingness, never to be fearful, only to do so with a
certain amount of adventure.
869. I feel the fall of self in silence and in nothingness
only to be by way of ought. Someone needs to believe in me
and I need to believe in someone. I don’t lack out of
nothingness. Wants and needs are the color of violet; the
flower and I have only what we have. To ask for anything
more would be selfish. Understood? No? I understand.

870. Journals are meant to rid constipation.

871. There are puffy white animals in the sky; a bear, a
mouse, a moocow, all in a herd...roaming. Icicles form and
fall to resting earth.

872. As a misunderstanding we become understood.

873. The gravitational pull of her eyes makes me fall in
love with the magnificence of her nature. No one talks
about nature anymore. No one knows how to love
anything. It’s a sad way to live life.
874. The sun beats off her face and her olive skin beckons
the way of my tongue.
875. Those who believe poetry is dead have not spent a
single day contemplating worlds, kissing women, drinking
wine, remembering breath, swallowing rain, breaking mirrors,
hopping trains, counting stars, eating sky, borrowing
letters, singing language, batting eyes, dreaming snow,
climbing skyscrapers, dipping chocolate, laughing, laughing,
laughing, crying, crying, crying, wondering...

876. Every woman has their cause and every man has their
reason.
877. There’s a war out there. A war on people that has
been suppressed by something larger than themselves.

878. In this egg universe there’s a billion little swimming

fish. The constellations on her arm is somehow a map of my
future.
 66.

879. In time one must find their direction.

880. By fault, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling
wondering how I got here and like all people who wonder, my
eyes close to the sight of intricate dreams.

881. A blasphemy is the rain that falls while I stand with

no umbrella.
882. This place is a vacant room. It haunts the empty
heart.

883. I can’t understand this plight. It begs me to wilt

like a flower. I know there will be other days; other days
to escape the overwhelming somberness...why can’t anyone see
the genius? You see, the ego is such a bastard.

884. I’m in love with my journals because they understand

me from the inside out.
885. I tend to destroy any good in my life.
886. It’s the echo of seagulls over The Great South Bay, a
silence before a car arrives and startles a dim streetlight,
a rock, and a swoosh of a voiceless wind. A man steps
out. Smoke billows an empty earth; a fragile cry from a
decaying cigarette, most resembling my grandfather’s
greatest hour. Anything else is similar to beach
erosion. The man with his seashell and me with my steering
wheel. I am to the man what the moon is to earth and what
the man is to the seashell.
887. I wrote some of my shittiest poems this
semester. They bombed in class. That’s what happens when
you try to appease people. I’d rather speak my voice out of
tune than choke.
888. Oh by the way, don’t forget my name.
889. Land’s End. Man’s End.

890. Sometimes all the Dionysus in me spills out when my

solar plexus spins in a whirlpool. And sometimes I should
just sit back and reflect.
891. Thank you journal. O’ thank you so much for listening
to all my burps, giggles, and randomness. I owe you the
world.
892. Be in love with your words, not the people who
distract you from them.

893. You could pour all romance in a bottle and drink it at

 67.

seven in the morning as an energy drink but the results will

fall short of love.
894. Asking questions to learn answers of self; to defend
the anatomy of the human spirit is exactly what I aim to
achieve.

895. Black birds scatter on top of a bare tree.

896. I’m filled to the brim with hope, sadness, truth,
happiness, honesty, disillusionment, passion, and
nothingness...How did I end up this way?
897. At what point did eye forget space?
898. I’m made of layers like a rubber band ball.

899. Psychologically detach brain from love. I’m not

saying not to love, I’m saying not to think about it...
900. Epiphanies are the little treasures in understanding
oneself.

901. A rose color in the sun of imaginary rays painted

across our eyes; deliberate rainbows for all the soul
seekers.
902. In silent reflection I see myself as a weeping willow
tree.

903. When it rains in New York City, it comes down heavy

and hard.
904. As rain rolls down a window pane, it looks like
streaks of meteorites soaring through the atmosphere.

905. I think the fact that we’re here questioning the stars
gives valid reasons that there’s life on distant
planets. If we’re here, they are there.

906. Nothing is more awkward than being crammed in an

overcrowded elevator in complete silence.
907. By the time night falls I’ll be the color of the moon,
holding my breath like sea fish, and drinking star juice
from a keg.

908. A thousand bricks create the path to my

destination. That’s if I decide to walk the path.
909. I once met a woman named nameless. She told me her
middle name was shameless. She had ill intentions of being
famous.
 68.

910. Sometimes when the sky is gray I can’t help but wonder
if the sun even cares. What’s the point of sunlight if the
sun doesn’t even give a shit?
911. In the bleakness of night, a solitary seagull squawks
at the midnight stars as a howling gust of wind batters my
bones and the blood goes numb from the dumb cold.
912. After we drink this wine we’ll be the most intoxicated
men in the world!

913. It’s time to realize that the real eyes are really
lies.
914. Dig deeper man!
915. The ocean has its own breathing motion. Waves dance,
dance, dance.
916. A ghost wind sweeps against a dim pink sky.
917. In the end are only excuses.

918. Well, look here. I’m at the Sage again, sipping the
red kiss, keeping nice and tight (as Hemingway would say)
during a cold winter night. And she maybe the most
impossible woman in the world. Or perhaps she says the same
about me.

919. Human beings are way too impulsive.

920. In the corner, I sit. I watch all the drunken
inhabitants of this lonely town sip down their liquor with
the intentions of causing havoc.

921. People ask, "Who is this poet sitting by himself? His

lips are as fat as purple plums."
922. O’ how my eyes are sore from staring at nothing.

923. Love is a creation from the absurd imagination.

924. Around here, nothing always happens.
925. When you contemplate all the lost loves in your life,
you have to account for their craziness, before they account
for yours.
926. These journals always listens to me...of lost love,
destroyed confidence, and the damn misery of feeling
empty. I wonder if these journals would like it better if I
just shut the hell up. I know I would.
 69.

927. The death of a star causes havoc in the universe just

as the death of love causes havoc in a human being’s life.
928. Have you truly contemplated nothingness? It’s a scary
thing.

929. Sitting alone; all alone with Beckett by my side. I’m

waiting for her to approach the same way Didi and Gogo
waited for Godot. Will she ever call? I’ve been waiting a
lifetime; full of gray hairs and long strings of
whiskers. My hands are blue and bare like the nakedness of
winter. At least my pen remains mighty and willing.
930. So we’re born. It has been understood for thousands
of years that we grow into aging, crawling creatures. Then
death, like a lotto ticket; only no winners when the numbers
show up.

931. Watch the mind become one with the sun; the planets
evolve into focus. There’s a suspicious indifference about
the moon that casts shadows onto the seven seas and I will
provoke thoughts into motion, canon blast them across
continents.

932. If only you knew what you put me through. The changes
I try to make you would think I was a chameleon. The days
move like yielding horses. Nights stray along the line of
time. With all these thoughts running parallel to the core
of your fancy universe, I wonder at what point do I fit in?

933. Who has time to be disdainful? In the black night, a

tint of blue by the sun be gone behind horizons. Flowers
dilly dally in response to yesterday’s raindrops. We change
as creatures of the earth. Who would have guessed that the
change would occur at such a timely youth? When we sleep at
night, you and I, we dream but simple versions of
reality. It may symbolize our future; maybe our past. It’s
in these symbols that purely show our magnificent form.
934. How much has modern man felt? In a world of brash
images, have we any decency? I watch flocks of birds fly
somberly into distances unknown. Roads of desolate pebbles
lead my feet into ignorant bliss. Thrice times have I tried
to take ink and dagger into my own hands but all I come out
with is cloth and ice. I ask again, how much has modern man
felt? In my hours between birth and death, I have felt all
the pain and happiness ever dealt. Modern man has felt an
ocean’s worth of heart and soul.
935. A cool summer eve’s night stands on the brink of
life. My cat, taught by its mother, taunts tiny
insects. Spiders, mosquitos, ants; all attempt to scatter
away from claws. They speed into their miniature homes. I
 70.

sit here in August laughing at such a sight! Is it wrong

that I laugh at such actions? A life is a life no matter
how big or small the creature. By the time I’m old and
weary, the insects will be laughing at me. After all, we
are all part of the downfall.

936. Flowers, how awful is the heat of the sun? How

charming are the scent of raindrops? How irritating the
feet of insects? Be it you flower, the green stem that
makes you stand tall? Be it you that makes me wonder? It
be you! Only I have wished for your pedals in the winter
when the trees are dead and the leaves are gone. I ask for
you during nightly hours before the morning’s brisk air. Be
it you flower? It be you!
937. Oceans upon oceans; seas upon seas, your eyes are the
honey of bumblebees. Dragonflies flutter in heavy
vegetation; spreading their wings in taunting
temptation. The view of the world through a telescope
provides a peculiar focus.
938. I found freedom in my soul today. It was hiding
behind the bones and guts; scared of what might become of it
if noticed.
939. Our nerves carry electrical impulses to the
brain. These feelings have me pondering near a small
pond. Where have our morals gone?

940. Let the ink of the pen slide across the page in a
matter of seconds and you too will be Indian giving your
words.
941. Actually, the moon has a particular agenda.

942. Buddha sympathetic; aren’t we all in times where we

have to search for ourselves? When will peace be respected
by the masses?
943. Heaven sent angels to your doorstep. You opened the
screen door and let them swoop into your home. The precious
sculptures on the shelf are porcelain like winter snow
storms in mid December. They cascade down the staircase
into your basement and wait resting upon the awning.
944. Animals stay nocturnal for a reason.

945. Who the hell is really rational anymore? Take a look

around; the people are starving, reaching, wishing for some
sort of escape. Force feed the ignorant art and watch them
become illuminated from the inside out.

946. Cosmic universe ciphers charming reality.

 71.

947. Mankind is hypocritical. We have faltered under the

battery acid clouds only to ensure our selfish
grins. Mankind has caused undeniable havoc across all the
waters of the earth and he will one day destroy this
beautiful planet out of self want. Superficial
bastards. When will we revolutionize an intellectual
revolt?...let us at least fight for our humanity!
948. Painters simply capture essence naturally.

949. The secrets of eyes are formed with the color of

presence.
950. The stillness of trees in the summer time makes a man
wallop in his own existence. Dark brown bark stemmed
vertical with green maple leaves; all the necessary parts of
nature.
951. I write so inconsistently that it’s becoming
consistent.

952. Air travels through a solitary breath that makes voice

be heard by the staggering herds of people; in and out of
the mess of mediocre society.
953. Machines of a blinding society contributes to
technological catastrophes. Embarked by industry, smoke
filled earth buried in turmoil. I faint with the blow of
fire. End of the dead; instead I choke with the suffocating
individual.
954. Music makes comprehension of the tedious impurities in
life much clearer. It has this rhythmic form in
mathematical sequences that massages the broken spirit in a
way which most outlets can’t. Music is like a hurricane;
beautiful, and massively rich in purity.
955. If the sun blinds your eyes, scarred by the red river
skies, keep in mind that the trumpets will blow before the
divine.
956. If I were as nocturnal as the night, they would call
me the moon. And if I were as blunt as a knife, they would
call me sharp. But I’m neither. I’m just a tired young man
trying to make sense of these surroundings; interpreting the
elements of earth for a mere glimpse in time.
957. The mantra of Buddha poetry makes modern notions of
fluid movement possible.

958. Her curves are like the hilly lanes leading towards
the most precious white capped mountains. Such apple red
lips can make a man’s heart stop. She is of purity and
truth. I say take me to no man’s land!
 72.

959. Till the shy stop, the heart will rock back and forth
like a pendulum; oscillating. Too bad Edgar Allan Poe is
lying in a pit spending time with the worms. Too early the
birds rise and these eyes can’t distinguish between the
sunshine and the moonlight. Sometimes I call them by the
same name; referring to sunlight but even that becomes too
bright, leaving flowers thirsting for sun showers. On this
very hour, I might devour every word that comes near me and
take back the meaning of night and day and claim that we’ve
been living in the vast notion of the grave.

960. The stench of the apocalypse may linger on for decades

if the people don’t put an end to the horror! What pain
those kids have felt and seen. I speak of war and dirty
money. Idiots in their fancy offices who don’t know how to
cock the gun and pull the trigger themselves, make other
less fortunate citizens do it for them. These leaders sit
back drinking infinity through a straw and wait for the dead
green presidents to set precedence and watch as small town
"heroes" make headlines: ANOTHER YOUNG MAN BECOMES A FAINT
WHISPER IN THE WIND.
961. In the city, the wool of Manhattan; people scurry,
hurry by rushing like blood to their vessels.
962. If a whale chokes on a bone don’t try to give it the
Heimlich because the whale will be carcass for the
creatures!

963. Those windows you look through, not only shows the
view of our land but it’s also partial truth of how we
live. I sleep on the hardest of beds and barely am able to
dream. Yet those windows lead to worlds greater than this
dimension.

964. If earth could spin the speed of light, could I be

still for just one moment?
965. Taunting is the man that points his finger in my
direction.

966. I fought a man once and realized he was my

brother. Tonight, I think about why we were so foolish.
967. Buried underneath the surface is a skeleton that so
desperately wants to feel soulful. Too bad he lacks heart.

968. Sometimes the best part of us can be seen through a

glass of wine. And sometimes it’s through the wine that
makes our judgements extremely jaded. And sometimes (maybe)
the best part of us are as jaded as a drunk walking the
streets of New York City.
 73.

969. Wash away words. Push into autumn. Lose grip of

ideas as leaves sweep the floor.
970. I am a direct reaction of the clouds and this pen
composes thunderstorms.

971. Oval evolution of a premonition.

972. Amongst the clouds are innocent children dancing and
parading. In the sky is an array of roses shaped in the
form of candles. The flame ignites the stem and sets ablaze
the pedals; the flowers wilt and burn. In the ocean is a
reflection of the horror that makes the children
falter. The wild wind may saunter across islands and coasts
of the most prominent pain I know.
973. How is the beast so violent? The waves are like a
tormenting bully. We erode into an abyss of chaos and drown
with the fish and debris.
974. The composition of the modern day hypocrite: 1) They
hold delusions of the self. 2) They have zero will
power. I think we have all been a hypocrite at least once
in our lives. For those who say, "No, never...not me," are
just being fooled by their giant egos.
975. Sound FX protrude into airwaves.
976. I am formed by planetesimals of the auburn night;
delicately configured into atoms that construct my molecular
perception with the many constellations that roam across the
celestial sphere and in the consequence of doom I will be
satisfied knowing my energy will escape into the expanding
universe.

977. Wasted land marked by a stranger’s dry cracked purple

lips; walk an empty life feeling nothing but lost. Sleep an
empty dream feeling nothing but dazed. As the world spins
23.5 degrees on its axis there is the conclusion of
yesterday’s memory box devoured by the beast of
time. Whoever that may be? Sometimes good men falter over
their misleading thoughts but great people learn to accept
their faults. There are plenty of shades to color the
lonesome star ridden soul hidden in the night. Black will
do for the moment. Hasn’t anyone ever wondered about the
over expansion of the petty man who stole triumph with a
mask and a gun? I wonder where that man may be during the
poverty of the human race. Is he a golden child of the
illuminating sun? Or is he merely a scared child trapped in
an adult sized body? The mechanism for truth is floating
somewhere in the rivers. The ripples are a supplier of
clues. Unfortunately, escaping tomorrow has led people to
some serious difficulties because we all know that once the
 74.

sun rises in the east, the truth will be presented on some

distant shoreline miles away from this place I call
home. And if charcoal clouds curtain the simple sun,
raindrops will conquer the land and concur with the silence
of dawn; fragments of a child tapping in mud puddles
demanding yesteryear as forever. At least they remain
soaked in something other than a wishing well. There’s
nothing stronger than the comfort of a mother’s slow breath
voice upon the ear of the struggling son. Where there’s
comfort there is room for hope. Like constellations in
winter time, a source of beauty is presented by the glow of
past making internal whispers a loud exuberant musical
symphony.
978. Poet, go wash your face in a lake. Watch how your
reflection shatters. Deep down we all have broken self
images.
979. Pale hands grasp the dirt filled earth, clenching what
was once an image of a star. The blue tones of the skin
shiver against the layers of the atmosphere. Begging,
begging, begging.
980. A clock is a time capsule of the uniform human
existence.
981. Money has consumed your popular ego. It has ripped
apart the reasons why you live. Go drown in coins because
that’s all you strive for. Eventually it will catch up in
the end and you’ll be shivering in fright.
982. Canvas portraits of chameleon hearts change like
tilted seasons. Where have all the colors gone?
983. The minerals in volcanoes are like diamonds of your
starry skies as the sun passes through your zodiac
sign. Smooth forming earthly rock cuts like glass against
the rain; shards as ritualistic as night and day.

984. Cry if you hear the wind blow to and fro. Die if you
can feel the hail pelt the solid ground you walk upon. Try
to regain composure.
985. In this building are hundreds of existing human
beings. But are they aware of their existence? Somehow we
are all connected through the silence of energy. There’s an
invisible map all around us that we can’t see.
986. Fragments of an ordinary man may take you to
un-ordinary places.

987. Some days we drift like continents. Some days we

sleep like night; sifting of the millions that crept into
your eyes.
 75.

988. Journal of the weary heart, let me tell you that I

love every bit of your feel. This is my release to you.

989. Deja vu in autumn. The leaves are falling against the

earth. The moon cascades beautiful gleaming light; an ocean
of happenings that once occurred.
990. Alone at a table with a backpack and a bottle of
water. All single entities become aged when alone.

991. Find a dream in shadows diminishing reality of a

streetlight’s desire.
992. What good are memories if you speak of them alone?

993. Resolutions magnified by dilated pupils soaking in

messages of the world.
994. Would the caveman cry knowing what he has evolved
into?

995. Duplicated soul? I think not!

996. The universe is a complicated space where science and
spirituality may unite as one and alter the way we think
forever.

997. Big bang universal energy disperse heat, matter,

friction; force of gravity set upon chest compressed by
ultra violet airwaves...the same shit that forces ear drums
to bleed.

998. Hey, modern man! Make your day before the grave eats
your heart.
999. Brain foresees everything you ever wanted in life.
1000. One day in the future, earth will become ancient
history. Artifacts if you will. When the sun dies out and
mankind perishes, earth will be one vast museum for the
solar system. We must create so that human history isn’t
lost forever.
1001. It’s not the image that makes the mind, it’s the mind
that makes the image.
1002. If I were the stars I’d make sure to explode in your
face.
1003. Doubt everything you are and realize just how good
you can become.
1004. There are reasons why we exist; mind, molecule, heart
beats, and fingertips. I’m not an ego maniac and I know
 76.

it’s selfish to think humans are superior, or even earth is

essential in the universe, but I must say that we will one
day find out how precious our lives really are.
1005. Ptolemy science of sun multiplied by the half
crescent moon will equal the day you were born.
1006. We are roaming in a world of elastic dreams.
1007. The people are freezing outside. It’s Brooklyn
temperatures below zero and my mind sling shots to a
different universe where brain levels exceed sudden physical
truth.
1008. Another rainy day in Bay Ridge. The night sky is
clouded like a head ache. A city that never sleeps is a
city with a major insomnia problem.

1009. Imagine that the imagination was only meant to be

imagined by the unreal realist of reality.
1010. I have no explanations on my writing because it’s
purely the feeling of expression and observation.

1011. The flame of the candle heats the wax and melts the
sky in the soul
1012. I didn’t choose writing. Writing chose me.

1013. Tunnels of apparitions in the night.

1014. A million mile universe stretches to warp mind and
find external truth through an internal process.
1015. How fast the vastness can be filled and destroyed.

1016. Suppose that the moon wasn’t silver but red like the
fire in your heart; it would make for a burning desire to
act out of impulse.

1017. Dim red lights like the eyes of a dragon.

1018. Wandering strangers of New York City hop the R train
back to Brooklyn. Most of them are just empty dreamers by
day and sullen procrastinators by night. Only those who
seek ever make it anywhere. The rest are left for
lonesomeness.
1019. One day I’ll see you again and won’t recognize your
face.
1020. To wait is to hinder progression.
 77.

1021. Come out of the shadows and see the sun for what it’s
worth.
1022. A stupid poet falls in love and gets his legs cut off
by a selfish woman.

1023. We all starve for some sort of truth. Sometimes we

find that conviction through the arts, through the sciences,
through the spiritual self. At other times we are left
struggling to answer unanswerable questions through poetry;
ending up short of exactness. Thus, it’s not the answer
where truth is hidden. It’s hidden in the process of
realizing that maybe there is no truth.
1024. Partially, I’m the cause of all this madness. Blame
society as well for we are two of the same.

1025. Oceans embark souls; breath be the reason for wise

men. Falter only when sure of the self. I have not been
sure about anything except the shores that crash along a
modest truth.
1026. Blue rose. Blue water. Blue sky. Blue
hearts. Blue prose. Blue smiles. Blue period. Blue
eyes. Blue thoughts. Blue shirts. Blue ink. Blue
dye. Blue, blue, blue; only as sad and lonely as you.
1027. Poets don’t get love, they give their love from pen
to paper. A poet is like a dove flying alone; so pretty is
the dove that soars in solitude. We poets are the stem of a
rose. We are the foundation of a house. We are the
backbone of life. We poets have the breath of winter in
Antarctica and the warmth of a hot sweaty summer in the
African desert. We poets are infinite. We poets are too
high to die and too low to go; so lovely and so god damn
insecure. A poet is someone that is more than an artist and
more than words, perhaps even divine. Poets get their fix
out of freedom but not just any freedom; freedom of this
expression. It’s better than drugs and almost better than
sex...almost. It’s more than freedom; come to think of it,
it’s nirvana. Only the Buddha knew the true meaning of
poetry.
1028. He is love. He is peace. He is hate. He is war.
1029. Sleeping globe spin ’round and ’round till the world
forever becomes still and silent like midnight darkness in
woods of desolate soul. The watchful eye is dyslexic from
lack of sleep and being hung over due to night before
madness talking to Mickey Grand about the reason for
ourselves; taking dosages of alcohol as our bloody
savior. The world continues to spin for reasons only the
dead know. I recall seeing my father’s eyes purely weep
 78.

inside, over old pictures of his father, my grandfather; who

ultimately was a dreamer, like myself. There’s a meaning
much more than what we can comprehend. Sleep deprivation
sets in. Life is begged by a link of drastic hope by which
waterfalls cleanses poor souls. Down on this night,
dwelling with the midnight moon full circle throughout the
sky as if perfectly placed by an artist. Well, I guess you
can call god an artist but I’ll call him or her or it...the
reason. But my reason is love, even if I only get to love
for eighty or so years, it’s the fortune that we were
blessed with.

1030. Angels are bowling in the sky. My nephew’s breath is

the reason why we fight for the cause.
1031. Sleep was the only one who cared for my dreams.

1032. Windows are the bleak mirrors that extract self into
a tumultuous world. Unknown like a black hole, it captures
light and forces reality to stain like red dye on a white
t-shirt. The image stays permanent to the observer beyond
but reality is further and deeper down in existence as
thoughts and light are crippled at the point of singularity.

1033. The dead poet is the one where no one reads his words
and all his thoughts are caught unaware.
1034. She must be worth the hype because her hips sway to
the downbeat of life.

1035. Motion derives from movement, but what if we were in

constant stillness? No motion, no movement, just the stale
progression of thought eating away through flesh and bone.

1036. Tuesday’s brain melted away from hours behind the

computer chip.
1037. Kiss me with your developed lips, full of lust and
the morning will come three hours earlier. Your taste is
the speed of sunrise.

1038. Manhattan is in the distance where the other four

boroughs weep for acceptance but Long Island, stretched far
east, begs for diversity.
1039. I wish I could paint a whole picture with my eyes
because I would paint her a perfect masterpiece of the
entire sky.
1040. Starlit skyline miles beyond the earth glare beams of
light off the edges of my cheeks creating shadows two feet
longer than what really is and so still the silent crow
stands on top of electric wires where currents flow to and
 79.

fro buildings so that communication is faster than the speed

of light and the ability of the moon to breathe down upon
our faces for us to devour is the standpoint of revolutions
where we sing silent soft poems like a whisper to the wind
hoping the beautiful one will catch a listen and the crow
stares on and its black feathers caress the dew on the
rubber of wire so that it can feel moisture on the tips of
its wings and I say fly over here and let me dream with you
and I say the stars in the night filled skies are better
than a cloud full of raindrops that beat with consistency on
the back of my window pane because without clear skies comes
teary eyes and without a natural light comes the weariness
of fright which cringes the bones but not the fright that
scares the heart beat and trust me...there’s a difference.

1041. I smear ink on my thumb made black on fingernail and

stain fingerprints that blot circular patterns on the page.
1042. Doctor says I’m blind. I say I’m just sick of seeing
the same shit. Doctor say I’m deaf. I say I’m just done
listening to the pain. Doctor says I’m hurt. I say I’m as
hurt as a medicated mind or a tiger’s wound. Doctor says
I’m sorry. I say don’t apologize to me, apologize to the
world.
1043. Violins stroke the clock, one past midnight, seconds
before sunrise.
1044. Karma is mass deja vu.
1045. I drank a beer to hide my fear and straighten out all
my worries. But soon that beer turned to six making blue
eyes blurry.
1046. Struck by light in the heavens above; stared at like
a child on Christmas day and received the motor device like
engines in the far future. A canopy hangs over the head of
thousands of people searching for that light which so many
dream about. Tired, lonesome men drink their midday beers
pursuing a long day of work. Question after question,
hypothesis after hypothesis, during the break of waves and
the swoon of birds, after the ringing of bells, and just
before dinner. Boy, don’t we wonder about that light so far
away. The grasp is almost incomprehensible, totally
reaching for the shimmering stars. That light is the reason
why I write.
1047. I’m like a prisoner in my own mind. I can’t escape
the paranoia of past mis-judgements. I wish I could take
back nights of alcohol driven action. Regrets seem to pile
up like a tower of novels.
1048. So many laugh to see that their lives aren’t even
that funny.
 80.

1049. Ice daggers. Winter is an accomplice to the death of

another season.
1050. I write plays because I like how they look from far
away.

1051. Between oceans are lands filled with the world’s most
wondrous people. Ideas create skylines and smoke filled
skies; buildings larger than life in comparison to earth and
universal standards. We become the ones who create and
destroy in fierce thought and with beautiful imagination.

1052. Listen to all the skeptics that whisper philosophical

journeys in your ear and develop a callus in the
mind. Winds screech against the base of my chin as winter
settles in. All stars search for that specific someone to
be wished upon. That’s when shooting stars become fireballs
in the night. That’s when dreams become one with the
burning sun.
1053. If a Tsunami hit Long Island we would be long
gone. In which I say, nature can’t be fucked with, thus, I
speak on behalf of our species...control the self. Be
alert. This world wasn’t just made for me and you but for
the gods who speak so true. Death will take its toll on
people who think they’re above nature. We human beings are
targets. Nature is the strongest force aside from the
almighty light. Human intellect is powerful but is it
stronger than the universe?

1054. If I weren’t a walking contradiction I wouldn’t be

human.
1055. Lines swirl into letters constructing words,
formulating phrases until one day a full length manuscript
appears.
1056. Fireflies spark summertime like lightning in the
night sky. Before the glow comes the speed of wings taking
my breath away. Three hundred waves crash upon the
shore. Ten thousand stars laugh and this is the birth of
poetry.
1057. What have we learned about war in all of
history? Blood is the currency of power.

1058. Snow angels melt in the sun. Mountain tops crumble

to the sea. Her eyes replace time with infinity.
1059. Theoretically, I’m the space between you and time.
1060. Let it be known that the reason I pour my heart out
is to express in every direction with every ounce of energy
 81.

in my soul, all of the most beautiful, ridiculous, and

powerful thoughts that the mind is capable of imagining.
1061. I wonder what the waves think of me staring at its
dark gloomy abyss. It’s like they doubt with every pull of
the moon; the rise and fall of the tide. Meanwhile, I
fester thought in the break and watch the surf contemplate
my weary existence.
1062. Who will pick up this journal and read thus far? I
assume their thought process will judge me as a belligerent
fuck. I seem to fight for emotion. Sometimes I even dazzle
my own mind with the dancing of my prose. I’m eager to find
out what will become of this page. There is no set
structure to how I write. Why should there be? Is there a
set structure to life? I write how life is, exactly as
spontaneous as it appears. I will change like the turning
of the page, like the seasons, like any person who realized
that they needed some sort of transition.
1063. Water easily motions away from land carrying its only
truth; flow...

1064. Music is appealing to the human ear because the

universe is a symphony within itself.
1065. Ideas warp a mind into complex realities.
1066. As it was as a child, everything was exactly as it
should be. But now that I’m years older, I haven’t known a
single truth under the moon.
1067. Psychoanalyze the avenues that these pages
cross. They are the calculations of a flowing mind and mind
and mind and mind and a flowing wave of this incredible
luxury, of expressing every single ridiculous note that the
brain proclaims. Don’t blame literature, don’t blame
structure, but blame the hand that acts and the light speed
of thoughts as the accomplice. A fully unorthodox way of
creating is the only truth in personal freedom. Don’t even
quote a man with such absurdness but bless his soul because
he is the one who dreams a fundamental dream as eyelids
begin to shut for the night and witness the blackness of
solitude. How wondrous the world actually is and how god
damn beautiful the mystery of tomorrow. This is the book of
finding oneself. This is the black book of pure honesty.

1068. We have aged. We have moved through space and time

to the point of no return. If only the wormhole theory were
true, I would shoot back into history for the taste of your
lips. The hours fade. Nights roll by like movie
reels. The moon is a solid rock. And the stars are a sorry
fiction of the past.
 82.

1069. This pen is a utensil that eases the burden of the

over analytical mind.
1070. Today, there was a spider on my wall. I woke up to
its creepy legs trickling across. I went to work. I came
home and the spider was not there anymore. Where has the
spider gone? Hopefully it won’t crawl into my mouth tonight
when I’m sleeping. Although, I can’t blame it if it does.
1071. We die faster as the television turns on.

1072. Family is the defined epitome of love.

1073. Me grammar stinx.
1074. The law has stolen his daughter. The law as killed an
innocent woman. Beware, nature is above the law.

1075. Absurdity is what makes a man sane.

1076. The universe is an almighty superior infinite maxim of
light yet I cannot reason with anything that concludes from
the realities in my head. There’s a mirror image in the sky
of the self and internal calamities hinder lively spirits
but not before the combustion of matter. In the grand scheme
of things we must view ourselves as evolving creatures of
the earth. I am not superior to any organism on this
"intelligent" planet. We are partly connected to each other.
We were all once part of the same mass. Now, I realize that
I’m the creator of my own validity.
1077. Due to the uncertainty principle I may very well have
many histories in which this that I write may not even
exist.

1078. An artist is a desperate person seeking solemn peace.

1079. I want truth and sincerity in all forms of life.
1080. Crutches are the stability of life.

1081. Contradictions are stages of self progression. Every

person, at one point, has been pure.
1082. And so it goes, this midnight discussion between my
conscious mind and my internal being lasting forever as all
thoughts flow to endless end.
1083. A mime is a clown of expressions without even
speaking.
1084. Some people fear love. Fear has occupied the heart for
so many years; one would not know how to live without it.
 83.

1085. Owl of tree, wiser than any man.

1086. Life is born every second on every hour of the clock.
Time spells out numerical integers into life long
progression. Clear night. My intentions are to grow old in
the world. A vision for eternal peace. Internal reflection.
Buddha recollection of past lives. Heaven exists; only it is
a cloud of blankets not in the clouds but somewhere
within. Winter doodling; a safe haven from the outside
crooks who steal souls.

1087. X out all the Y’s in life and finally catch some Z’s.
1088. Mind of molecular miracles, spinal cord responsible
in the transfer of information to brain’s main stage; the
cage of profuse images. Scrimmages of self awareness; a
consciousness of being. New York City has me dreaming;
fixing on Long Island’s Railroad (train of thought). Simply
stated all my words have been mis-perceived. I speak in
symbolic hieroglyphics; graphics of ancient scholars, only I
was born blue collar, kissed by the moon’s whiter color,
only to be smothered by the sun’s recover. Under the sheets
at night, I have conversations with the accent of my soul; a
dialogue enchanted by spirituality; a hook to the fishing
pole of reality. I call it the creative universe of the
greatest internal flower devoured by lions. Sky
faint. Pictures of vast landscape. We run to escape
light. Distance traveled by eyes from sunset to
sunrise. Phases of the cratered moon teaches lessons of
history. I’m balanced by the cerebellum, the structure that
coordinates fine muscle movement as the cerebrum responds to
a garden of tulips. I trudge through existence, patterns of
elliptical eclipses; circular revolutions of
planets. Similiar motion of the heart effected by the touch
of a woman. I swim in abyss of bliss, reminiscent of lady
bug’s kiss.
1089. Seaweed in a dank bay floats like drifters in the
night.

1090. Walk a cracked brick sidewalk. Talk a crack lip side

talk. I follow this very line all the way to my
foreshadow. Speak silence no spoken voice like the time you
made me crumble to the swollen sea. You were my lighthouse
across miles of dark ocean. Now a broken lamp curves
internal appetite. Map the radius between the stigmas of
internal truth. Soon you will find the notions of external
lighthouse brought upon by longitudes and latitudes.
1091. Humble beginnings; I stepped on a flower that you
picked for me. You cried devil. This was the first
revelation. Gone forever, we fell apart and all angels
bawled. How these hands have been so cruel...Yet, as we
 84.

grew apart we converged. I kissed your lips loving not only

your worst action but your favorite songs.
1092. Ordinary misconceptions of youth between atmospheric
temperature allowed ninety eight degrees Fahrenheit to be
understood. Mercury rises. Mercury falls. Your eyes set
tones for airwaves as helicopters approach. The heat has me
all fixed up in a motion that propels a simple reason of
sky. When I fall from heaven, I’ll be sure to call out
names of nonexistence. I am nothing more than a shadow
formulated by artificial sunlight.

1093. Subconsciously symbols are marked on this page not

knowing of the birth and route but only knowing that it’s
presented at a time of such remorse. Reason has an
irrational existence. Dare I revise this thought? You
advised me to revise my position on punctual
timing. Tonight, I can’t decipher between punctuality and
punctuation. One is a mark of beginning and the other is a
mark of ending.
1094. Night sky blooms across a desolate coastline. I
stare frozen into a bottomless pit of memories. Theories of
an expanding universe may lead to our conclusion. It takes
eight minutes for the sun’s light to reach earth. We
continuously try to live in the past. The possession of
hours without the H is ours. If time was never measured we
would be living in the present.

1095. I’m an actor who has been cast by shadows. You are
the director who never seems to lead. At what point has our
film made sense? Late at night, pondering endlessly, I
search for the exact camera angle that will trick the
audience into believing what I sought to achieve. Nowdays,
I glance with a glimpse of insight into the product of a
motionless picture.
1096. My image of marked separation keeps me askew from the
sky that leads to nowhere end. There’s no voice on the
other end of the cell phone, just an over filled mailbox. I
thought I called a simile of the moon, a metaphor of the
night, yet the only answer was from modern technology to
whom no one person cared.
1097. Walk standard lines to understand linear motion. We
were once a straight and narrow path unheard of zigzag
ragtime movement. Now, I dance in swing amongst the
dead. I follow sunshine to vast notions where oceans
separate continents like you and I from time. Some say
we’ve become a window into the past. I say we’ve become
fossils. I step eight count rhythm of the clock and wait
for the burial of our time capsule so that one day someone
will find us again.
 85.

1098. Snow gathers on sidewalks. I ponder pounds of

weightless thoughts; hitherto the pleasures of hearts. You
flaunt naked shoulders under heavy clouds, bare remarkable
features that resemble ivory tusks of elephants from
India. Yonder roads of desolate search focused on a mental
photograph. Here, there, everywhere the world spins upon
space. Space is our natural habitat.
1099. Acute angles of cute angel’s semi automatic lips
shooting kissed bullets. Cupid would praise that good man
for his natural sin. Mathematically, our equations never
added up. Yet, I long for those rifle smooches under
equivocal starlight. Borrowed imagination from greedy gods
makes this man sleep in reverie not only for the visual
apparatus but for italic thought. Vindicated detailed
movement might make me a better man

1100. Ancestors from my past taught me that we all die

unconditionally from a heart ache. Remember arguments the
size of monuments? Marble stone like sculptures depicted on
my bedroom desk with a hallow inside. Outside is most firm;
shells that bond a strong relationship but was nothing more
than hot air within. It’s the death of tremendous sullen
breath.
1101. Projection through broken language, our cheeks
smolder under long windy winter nights. Volume elevates
sound. I heard a story told by you not for my ears but for
someone else. Gamble my exact scent to Russian roulette and
I bet we coalesce forever. Sometimes rain drops skip a
beat. Other times they don’t. It’s none of my business to
inform the mind of unwanted mass of matter. I’ll seek Fire
Island in the distance like I seek you from afar.

1102. Fresh green apples grown on tree conditioned to

seasons. I want to grow with the change. I the evolution
of you. We are seeds that are born out of accumulated
months.
1103. Tulips kiss two lips till one pedal falls.

1104. Rain pours drastically onto the forbidden sea. No

boats dare coast their way into misery. The world is
still. Every bird has flown south for the winter. And me,
I stand watching the dark bay gather itself in the lonely
night. Gray lurking clouds separate the stars from
reflection. Streetlights glare in a misty
moisture. Pouring out of my heart, like the storm, comes
the vicious temper of misfortune. Headlights beam past my
shoulders creating shadow puppets on the waves of old story
tellers; a dream. My heart races. My pupils conform to
blackness. Amid the dance, I speak in veracious
spontaneity; mumbling voice to this island earth, flat like
 86.

the notes I sing, blunt like punch lines and all

misconceptions dive with ducks head first into the
bottomless sea.
1105. The people who think they are perfect are more flawed
than the people who question their perfection.
1106. In ways in which I cannot explain verbally, the pen
is willing to speak. Compassion can only be found once the
self is ready to listen. How does one preserve a heart
without cracking it open? How does one fulfill a dream that
has not been heard? There’s a division of mind and matter
that sparks conversation. External skeleton, non-skin
understanding the walls of necessity. You need the skin to
feel. You need the skeleton to construct. And you need the
heart to listen.

1107. Black rope, tied around neck, words choke...end of

thought.
1108. City streets. Old black jazz poets celebrate words
for nickels and dimes in brown hat with feather
tail. Trumpets blare. Wind gusts past civilians on cracked
dirty sidewalks. Taxi cabs honk at stop and go
traffic. Traffic goes nowhere at all. Penniless school
boys cross median laughing at lunchroom jokes. Skyscrapers
pierce the sky from block to block; smoke filled air no
longer empty.

1109. A voice buried in the ground makes for muffled

communication. You and I communicate in a way of
progressive demise; petty trials of speech that perish in
the grave.

1110. Crash, 3,000 ripples of Autumn waves; afloat on

memories I lay. Her voice is like a cloudless day as I
stare forever gazed to pillowed lips of yesteryear.
1111. Railroad tracks slippery when wet as rain pours
heavy. I drive as neon lights glaze off road blinding
vision for a left turn. Complete circular recycled notation
of years past. Trains bustle against a clinking
rail. Telephone wires swing enormous blow. O’ how the
windshield wipers squeak a sharp hawk cry! All has been
divided between vision and thought and you have become a
scream into the past.

1112. I stand peering amongst treetops from a two storey

building. Smoke filled sky seeps in the distance. A plane
coasts the clouds. On the scale of one to ten you streamed
off the charts. As beautiful as this sight, you fall
between the niche of majesty. My eyes wonder to this day if
we could have made it through the harsh weeds of
 87.

existence. Obscure linen lines mark the world with seven

hundred tears. I unto you as you unto me. We became
entangled in a noose and a dream.
1113. Your skin is honey. I am Pooh bear feasting on every
inch of your body. My fingertips melt in your
palms. There’s an auburn taste in your chocolate eyes. You
must be wondering why I speak of you so sweet as a
bee? You’re the only person that I have met that could
cause so much destruction with such natural beauty.

1114. There is a cleft in the clouds. Divide my very

being. Rays of the sun pass through onto a diminutive beach
that glistens back a reflection of the sky. I stroll an
empty beach up the wooden dock to peer across enchanted
waters. Produce thought in the skull. Vacant is the shore
surrounding our very reason.

1115. Asunder! Asunder! The earth one massive

blunder! Your walk is the gravity that pulls my every
wonder!
1116. Despite all that I am accustomed to, I think that the
most riveting detail in life is to be loved by an opposite
who assumes a similar position. I stand alone tonight under
the bleak inky night. I stand alone every night that you
aren’t in my arms. It doesn’t make me a lesser man, just a
little bit more faint. Hours are somehow stolen underneath
the pillow. I’ve dreamt once or twice. Sometimes even in
the day. Some may say I dream too much. It’s the only
reason to believe. If not, the ground that I walk upon will
become ash from footprints. I collide an ever so breaking
image in mind of a precept to knowledge. Love is only as
brash as it sounds. It tempts the wheel that spins my
engine. I call upon winter for a clock that works in
bringing back what once was. Clocks are the cause of our
disappearance.
1117. My heart is a wounded soldier in a war called life.

1118. Young foolish interchangeable breaths. We are two of

the same yet different in motion. I walk diagonally. You
talk with crooked speech. We are the most valuable
enterprises of American history; dumb, young, stupid, and
full of life. I can’t find my way out of this hole. A
black firmament. Please, reach for me in the acres that we
cross throughout our path in life. My hand will always be
extended for a natural touch. Trees will deliver our age in
a matter of ringlets. I am forever indebted to the most
incomprehensible symbol of being. Don’t go!

1119. Just if I may add under the squeaky streaky starlit

heavens that no other truth is of certainty. May the earth
 88.

swell, and mountain tops sneer the very air it cuts. This
is pure. This is real. As geese dive into an ocean of
difference. Waves smash against feathered wings. If that
were me, I would be a drowned fool. Yet, my lungs
asphyxiate in rigid frigid cold. Burnt by frost bite. It’s
eight o’clock on the east coast. Distraught between time
zones.
1120. There’s rainfall across a metropolis where people
sleep. Hundreds ignore the sounds of pelting drops on a
rusty red window pane. Days be damned. Crew, sir, fix - my
god forsakened soul. When I sleep, you text me messages
from distant avenues. All aboard a train of fright. I
haven’t been this sacred or scared of severance in several
thousand seconds.

1121. A phone call away, yes you are. I am drunk like a

skunk dialing the numbers of an apparition. No apparent
reason except to just talk. A voice that is consistent is a
voice that is persistent. Unfortunately, we speak a
nonverbal language.

1122. Undergarments strayed across my bedroom floor. Your

naked body lay on top of muddled sheets. I glare into your
brownie eyes and spare your lips for another day. It’s a
vision I had, nothing more and nothing less.

1123. Redemption of a sullen spirit triggers a beam of hope

in a crouched boy’s mind. You must first touch my
lips. This is a necessity in the way that I
appear. Reimburse the Zen clouds. Snowflakes saunter down
as a sign. Salvation is a mark of bravery rather than a way
to seek the shortcut out. Deliver me!
1124. In all honesty, I was not; and I will forever regret
it.
1125. O’ how you make me squander. I know I was an
intolerable obstacle. Now, I view you from a wooden
gazebo. I notice that the soil you walk upon seeps into an
empty earth. O’ how the sand melts beneath your feet in the
exact way I dissolve into a puddle of lavish slime. This is
the first sign of the end of the world; a cryptic enigma of
an overpopulated race.

1126. Umbrella’s deflect rain drops as a crier of

everlasting symphonies seeps on all the people of the
world. I pray for you as thunder bolts sac a defying
sinner. I pray for me. It’s how I was raised. Amid broken
stems, I broke your heart. That’s when flowers withered
bare. Vivid is the detail you lure.
1127. The consequence comes from someone who has never
cared a single ounce of remorse. I’m a buried poet
 89.

underneath petty soil once walked upon by ancient

philosophers and old time movie stars. Together we die
unsure of our reason in society. I scored an overture for
you. A romantic piece. With a bit of hip rock. It rests
in my skeletal coffin.
1128. Your legs move like tango. A rhythm of the breaking
waves. Sensual is the flow that makes the world go
’round. A carousel movement. I stagger in circular
motions, three hundred and sixty degrees from the focal
point. These scars are the orbit of seclusion.
1129. There’s a schism in our path created by an emotional
earthquake. Charcoal memories simply slide in between the
cracks. Hear me compose a silent prayer as if I were a
musician of classical notations. Sound familiar? One
massive eruption of soul. Blue Island Long Point; my
location of an endless thought. Think not what I say but
what you will feel as we crumble into shameless eternity.
1130. Graffiti is the blemish of an artist. Water colors
are never used to tag up the logo because the paint would
trickle down a steady wall. I have seen you in your most
artistic ways badger the most inconceivable events. Harbor
tiny sketches in your notepad and psychoanalyze your worst
intentions.

1131. Tonight the moon wanes to a forbidden close. Eyes

dwindle big shut eye. Forlorn is the lullaby akin to the
sounds of a distant chant; a distant metaphor. A simple
daze makes the days fly...bye.

1132. Resonate tones that make me blue. Legs will shatter

underneath the hips. Eyes will melt. We haven’t touched
fingertips since the feelings went away; a vanishing act for
the helpless soul. I harvest the mourning light.
1133. At one point in life I was composed like a Beethoven
Sonata. Now, I hold a posture that of a broken record.
1134. There you are, most beautiful in a complex
reflection. Reflections are mere pictures that can’t hurt
because it has no nerves unless you fight the reflection
with tears. In it, a pain that gouges out eternal
longevity. The way of the Buddha is to meditate eternal
strength. I thought you were the strength. Now, I realize
that these hours that pass from night to morning is
approximately the same amount of time it took me to realize
that my journal was filling up to a completion.

1135. I could go on forever, I really could. But the

future is calling for me. I must go...

**
 90.

This is the end.

The end of prose.
The end of stories.

The end of imagery.

The end of love.
The end of hate.

The end of sensation.

The end of questions.
The end of answers.

The end of reasons.

This is the end.