"effectively speaking on behalf of no one..."

past the pharmacy, past the signs, past the ill-lit dive bars, drunks, and bastards swimming in the gin and neon, semi-coated pink and green, past stretch 313 and the abandoned sullivan house with the cracks and the smells and the cats who chase mice through the stench of a basement buried beneath wrecked lamps and picture frames, into the darkness of the wood where poor peter carson lays upon driftwood singing so quietly, "johnny boy, a will-to-do, oh johnny boy, oh johnny boy. dear johnny boy, oh what-to-do, come creeping through the moonshine," like a hollow, sterile man beneath wretched memories.


"do you see me in the morning as i'm waking up the world? with a pitchfork and a shovel and a heavy shoulder or two."


the writings have stalled, a little more each day, spilling slowly out of a once full head. put a pen to paper and wait for the ink to bleed. put a finger to key and listen for the taps of fresh ideas. but the blood doesn't pump. the mind sits in a stale, sluggish state, with a predilection towards mediocrity.