To Whom It May Concern:

This is why you can’t forget. This is the reason that you can’t disconnect. This is the reason there are silent phone calls from lonely hands desperately clinging to the receiver, determined not to miss a single uttered syllable.

This is the reason there are those cliché chance meetings of old memories in cute places like mall parking lots.

This is the reason that desire is ensnared by trembling lips (oh how it wishes to be set free, to become substantial. It waits impatiently to express itself as a timid confession, or an illusionary caress trapped between fantasy and reality. [You want it to be real so bad you can taste it. We all can.] )

This is the reason you tremble. Your body’s soft tremors explode upon you as the titillating crescendo of hellish pleasure confiscates your starving nerve endings and makes them its own.

This is what intrigues you to the point of insanity. You want to know so bad—to be a part of it—to become a part of it. This is your channel to the chaos of life, of existence outside the American Dream. This is the spirit of Lord Byron, of Jack Kerouac, of Shakespeare.

These are emotions we can’t control. These are the tsunamis of Fortune crashing over us while we atone ourselves with a constant flow of sacrificial tears.

This is a fact: “They say that if your pupils are dilated when you are talking to somebody it means you are attracted to them.” See what happens when angels whisper the secrets of God into the ears of sleeping men? Now we spend all of our time gazing into the eyes of the potential authors of our epic love story (searching for a great cavern of endless black hope).

This is a timid confession: When you look into my eyes, it feels like you are trying to break through the shallow surface and journey farther down the rarely-trodden paths that lead to those places where the most tender perceptions lie . Sometimes I wonder if you are trying to explore the barriers of my soul in hopes of discovering that tiny infraction, that one open spot that will allow you to enter triumphantly. What then? Would you explore all that you saw? Gracious God forgive us, we have sinned. This is just an issue, an unexpected pleasure brought to us by Fate (sweet blessings upon her, whoever she is).

These are the scenes from the life of a screaming god. I would wake up but this has become all that is real to me. What am I going to do? Am I Cursed? Sometimes it feels like a hopeless burden ( or an exquisite torture). Yes I cry. But who doesn’t cry because beauty always lies? Change your mind. Do it. If it were that easy it wouldn’t be worth it. So I remain unrated, hopelessly fated, never jaded, and elegantly understated. I don’t know what to do. For when I dream now, there are things like sitting on fallen trees in sunlit woods and laughing about the notion of it and smiles that cover faces like murals of joy.

That is what this is. If it were a color it would be all of them at once. If it were a hologram of Shakespeare it would flirt with your muse. If it were the Penguin King it would commit suicide (sadly, some cannot cope with universal shifting. The burden of Chaos becomes too much for them). If it were Buddha it would be going home. And if it were jack shit, more people would know it.

PS.
I think, maybe…but what if…this weren’t where it ends but where it begins…or ends or begins or ends or begins… What if it were a cyclical evolution—a grand spark of hope in the minds of fractured men called “great thinkers.” But this time…something enigmatic like when a glance becomes a symphony of whispers. Might as well turn it into something legendary. This sad race needs new lullabies to sing to its restless young. Why can’t you? Why can’t I…become a Lullaby?

I swear that somewhere underground is the real heart and soul of dark shadows back from the brink in new shades of gray. Maybe the importance lies in only feeling luscious. Wow, to think it could be as simple as that. But, why can’t it be? It’s just as easy to shatter (we all do it. The difference is we don’t fucking need all the king’s horses and his men. We have drugs to put us back together again.) Is there something more? Some exquisite level where a new energy becomes the indulgence of excited essences.

“How was it in the dream? You know…” In situations such as these one cannot afford a moment’s hesitation. In a night’s tale Scherzerade saved a life. In a thousand, she became a queen. I’m not exactly sure what that meant, I realize this now. But I think it has something to do with the Song of Solomon. Such an eloquent example of erotic love. In that moment, I see it now, it’s the kind of purity found when two lips meet. It tastes like a secret conversation under moonlight’s canopy, like an Italian love song and candlelit tables with checkered cloths.
That is my final answer to that timeless question. If I had the words to properly describe it, I wouldn’t be a poet, I would be a god. And sadly, some things are not for the likes of Cain’s children (we are an unfortunate lot of magnificent souls). We are not the product of history’s mistakes! We just couldn’t make our secret holy. So fuck them. Who needs their pompous god? I choose to worship in the temple of Surprising Truths.

Surprising Truth Number One: You know that place you used to go as a kid? That place where everything was perfect, there was no evil or wrong, just innocent holy moments. That place that dried your tears with the gentle brush of Gaia’s fingers. That’s the way it felt (the way it feels). 10/15/04

If it’s not okay, then what can it possibly be? There’s no time for the fine points of necessity and greed. There is only time for misty remembrances of things like the Rat Pack and all the rest of the good old days that somehow slipped out of our desperate grasp and plummeted into the oblivion of pop culture. I don’t want to be oblivious. I don’t want to be pop. I don’t even want to be culture. I just want to be an idea inside the memorial of the three rational questions (an ideal slightly to the left of a shifty eyed paperclip that knows too much for its own good.). If it’s not so predictable then what’s the harm? The true catastrophe rising is the realization that there are no conundrums to explore. So sing to the Tao, not in worship, but more in acknowledgement that it loves you (even if it doesn’t know you. [Like Jesus Christ’s private collection of souls he keeps hidden deep in his sock drawer.]).

I hate those eyes that glare at you tragically in black and white. Theirs is an infinite stare of passive longing. These are not the old days. The new era has begun, it always does. Why fight it? We can’t. The Flow carries us along regardless (that’s the reason we love it almost like blurry smiles in a peaceful opus). I wish I were Plato. I want to understand perfection, to know what it is to be at that pinnacle of the grandest hope of all mankind (for most of us spend our lives knowing imperfection but never understanding it. At least I can say I’ve progressed that much farther.). Embraces are warm and reminiscent of delicious summer breezes.

I wish I could see the light. So, I wrote this thing. You know, more like a prayer than
a hymn (so the shining emeralds tell me. But who ever believes them?). Sometimes I wish that life were a moonlight serenade underneath windows of lovely and elegant ladies. Sometimes I wish it could be just like (right now I’m having an 80’s flashback. Lots of red leather and bad haircuts. Have I found a window into hell?) it was that time that I looked over that cliff and my body told me exactly what it would feel like to fall. Who am I writing this to? What am I trying to say? I think you know. You know exactly who I’m writing this to. Your cleverness is truly a magnificent wonder. I think we’re safe, though. The sky still hasn’t fallen. (And fuck that little light bulb that appears above the heads of things when they are able to extract an idea from their junk food dependent and lazy brains. I really, really hate that fucking light bulb.).

Apparently the Devil has taken a fancy to me. Not that it’s a bad thing to be showered in her blessed glitter, that’s not what I’m trying to say. I guess what I am really trying to say is that there are these patterns I keep trying to figure out. You know, those quaint little idiosyncrasies of humanity that define us, labeling us WHO WE ARE (or something like that). I have a secret to tell you. A hidden answer to confess. You want to hear it? [When you felt like absolute harmony every moment was wrapped in some kind of indescribable honeysuckle fantasy.] A gift under the influence of an abstract concept. What does it take for people to dream together? Do you know? The results are in! The Princess of Swords is on the rise, closely following the fiery Princess of wands into abandonment to desire. (You can call it surrendering to your aching need. That’s what I do.) Cool World. This doesn’t seem real sometimes.

Her glow was almost ethereal. Almost supernatural. Almost an otherworldly manifestation of something… She became the moonlight, if only for a fragile instant. That’s what I like about it. Sometimes it is a quiet aura from a delicate soul. That’s where an aspect of the nature of beauty lies. What does it take to compose the legends of a tumultuous time? What does it take to preach the significance of soft moans and tender caresses? These are stories of their own. Legends in their own right. What if I told you that these two things were some of the gateways to splendor? Its circularity is mind boggling to say the least. I could try to say the most, but there aren’t enough words in the history of language to achieve that Herculean feat.

Life needs more piano solos. But fingers can talk in a plethora of exciting ways (all it takes is a journey into the depths of your creativity.). Romanticism is not dead; it has merely become passé. That is the fault of those who forgot what it is to experience passion. Their bodies have no life, have no connection to the Flow. There was a sparkle there. I know I saw it amidst the blue. What was it? Was it an explosion of the soul? It could’ve been bad lighting. Who knows?

It is a process. Like moving on. Memories are absorbed (made a part of you. They are a kind of patch for the soul. For everyone needs soul patches to cover the former resting places of those delicate stolen pieces.). This is called “moving on.” When memories become a permanent and unique trait about you. They are vessels of change in the smallest increments. This is why leaves fall. This is why the monkey falls. This is why cycles continue.

I spoke to Death. He was in the form of a patriarchal scorpion (caught in the fish nets of life). He told me he desires you. Desires for your universe to become his own. But fear not, the Hierophant carries the lamp of illumination that lights the pathways to the Sun. Follow him, things will be alright. Control is a four-letter word. An ordered manifestation of a universal concept of containment. This drives you mad, I can tell ( I see your restless spirit longing to be liberated. Aching for the wanton freedom of the Foolish air.
Fire is the key to this, the catalyst to the Star. Order and structure must fall. Emancipation must be achieved and maintained, if not; you will be lost to the all consuming forces of Dominion. These are the obstacles on your path: Reckless impulsivity. Fickleness. Addiction. Unfounded fear causing violent outbursts of panic-stricken anger.
These are the things to be aware of. These are the things to rise above. Lust is connected to Death is connected to The Fool is connected to the Devil (and the new Aeon begins.). The Great Jester is attracted to the Fallen Son. There is something inexplicable about him. Something to draw her curious and flighty nature to him (this is because puzzles are always intriguing until they are completed and the mysterious excitement is gone forever.) Ah, but the mischievous ram knows things. He understands the harbinger of change and welcomes it. It’s all connected…

Sometimes I feel homeless. That is part of it too, I suppose. It feels like a cold November night. The kind that is cold and windy and rainy and smells of broken hearts. In those times, I really want a home. Some place I can go to rest and be comfortable. We need a revolution of 3. But that’s hard for some to see (those of us whose number is “i” We wonder if we even exist. [Can imagination possibly be reality?]). This honky’s gone to heaven. Once upon a time, all roads led to Rome. Then the mother fucker burned to the ground. After that, all roads lead to a memory. I wonder where the roads out of memory lead. Where do those new paths of experience and excitement take those who decide to tread gingerly upon them? You were right about St. Christopher. He’s forgotten. Where do saints go when nobody believes in them anymore? Maybe they go live with the fairies and all the old gods…maybe. Or perhaps they become the new supplications of St. Jude who has no other choice but to champion their lost causes. I’d rather go live with the old gods, at least they knew how to have a good time.

I don’t know…everything. It all seems blurry every so often. I do know that I can’t stop. I can’t stop searching, can’t stop hoping, can’t stop living. What if there is more power in words than people think? What if words were what made the world what it is, made people who they are? Even though we are so much more than words, all we have are words to give us meaning. That is an intriguing thought in itself.
But how can I use words to describe it? The way it feels? How can you describe the sun consuming my nerves in golden pleasure? How can you describe the refreshing waves of soft sighs as they lap against the shores of ecstasy? How can you describe the soulful explosions in your eyes that are ignited with every smile of numbing joy that plays across your lips like a brilliant sonata? I can’t. I try, but I can’t. This is me with my head in my hands weeping tears of inadequacy and frustration. This is me wishing I were a god (because maybe, just maybe, then I’d finally be worthy.). This is me not understanding what the hell I am trying to say. This is me fading like a white fog. This is me becoming perpetual light trapped in November clouds. This is me when I’m the color fluorescent violet greenblueredpurpleburntsiennamotherofpearl.

Thank you for early morning visits. They are perfect little dreams of surreal reality that make the day beam with valiant confidence. There are smiles sometimes…I think they are supposed to be a secret. But when the eyes smile too, they tell everything. It’s not their fault, their joy is innocence. That’s where we find truth (inside those tiny vertigos of light). I apologize. I may not have the hang of this yet. I guess what I’m trying to say is-------------


I can’t even remember my dreams anymore. They have been stolen from me. So please lie to me. Just like the newspapers told us to. Lie to me. Tell me they are all good dreams. Tell me there is no fear or pain or tears. Just joy and happiness and good times and perfect ambience lighting. That’s what I need. That’s what I crave. I don’t want to forget. This is going nowhere. I’m getting too old for this shit. My heart is very weary. I need to find some kind of peace. What am I trying to say? I can’t even care anymore. How fucking sad is that? How fucking sad is this? we are all broken hearts and tortured souls and emotional roller coasters. We are not ok. You are not OK. Nobody is fucking OK. Wake up and admit it, for fuck’s sake. I’m tired of weeping for you. I’m tired of weeping. I’m feeling so hopeless right now. I’m feeling like love and romance are meant to be played out by other players (I should probably stick to the fleeting minor characters from now on. Just to be safe, you know. Boundaries and all). I’m feeling like all instances of these memories in my life are a façade. What lies underneath the surface is nothing more than foolish hope. Imaginary emotions applied to realistic situations at an attempt for an interpretation with meaning and validity.

But the games never stop. They just keep on playing themselves out. Different innings or quarters or halves or however you want to divide your twisted engagements. I don’t want to be full of fear and phobia and anxiety about life and things anymore. I want to let it all go. Become somebody new altogether. Now, if I could only remember my name………………………………………..


This is an anthem for lonely mules everywhere. Would it matter if I started dating this? Does the fact that it is January 17, 2005 mean anything? Does it make a difference? Does it matter that the Tree of Life has all of its secrets in divine strings of numerical words? So I fall again, the phantom planet tells me so. The light in the kitchen reminds me of a horror movie. That sick flickering before it sputters to life bathing the linoleum in florescent disease. Right after that moment, a dead body is usually discovered…or worse. I hope that never happens. Why don’t you meet me at that place we used to go. That place where we had those conversations that seemed to change lives. Fancies tickled with feather dusters. Cupid in a French maid’s costume. It seemed classy like that (to me, I think because I wanted something elegant. Like an old movie with a good story). Maybe I delivered the message to the wrong agent. Did you ever think of that? Out dated help controls where Buddha goes to laugh and play amongst his fields of sunlight. These mysteries are now explained. No books, just mirrors to other realms. Almost Alice, but without the growth spurts. If only tickets to Wonderland could be found wrapped around chocolate bars. It would almost be worth it. I really should be enjoying myself. I mean, it is the Apocalypse after all. The end all of all end alls. This is humanity signing off. At least we tried (well, some of us.).