recording my days
Where a
journal would incriminate by
deeds done
This book betrays
bastard thoughts
not a chronological itemized voyage onto unknown days
But a murky haze
of
emotion overlapping down into darkness
Farther he goes by the page
A flip of fiber: hours and cells degraded
more
tar in the
lungs
and
ink on the
page
can such
ephemeral concepts be caught in
ink?
in organized strokes reside?
Or do they slide like
inhibitions,
right before the eyes
Hand in hand the perfect pair
whimsical ideas that can’t be reasoned out and all that moral
conscience
So similar
When compressed to 3 lines the
ephemeral flys
only the bitter facts to summarize
Where to write the
revelations?
describe a decent?
between two covers which do not
discriminate nor
judge
---like it or not
There’s a brute
honesty in writing when it is neither forced nor restrained
Nothing held back, nothing detained
So a mind to be pondered is found here
not a brain to be picked
to take note of that which changes like the wind---write that here
But don’t be surprised when the
storm passes and the bitter words are left behind with nothing supporting them
Off now I go---into the dark
The map of new this and that
between two black covers
between the lines it all changed
Got high tonight and wrote this about 2 different books I am keeping. One, a 5 Year Journal, the other a sketch book. All an effort to keep this from being another day I won’t remember. Why do I like to write like Shakespeare when I get high? I don’t know.