(the day) i got away

i am kind

on the eyes

under hot summer

night

I am peaceful

quiet I am

not

all right. every

night I wake with 

alarm

you discovered me

uncovered me

you

then hid me from 

view. you

me

i am kind of bizarre

i play the guitar

without any

strings

the sound of silence

is not lost 

anymore

(no matter what

you may say)

it sings

Journal # 03.09.15

The sights and sounds have left me with feeling and vision. I broadcast from a dark place. The dream of you and me has crumbled into memory. And life goes on. Today could be a real day, if I stay out of my way. Out of the past, with no certain future. The way I meet the world with open eyes, if not a smile. If the world is not so harsh and terrible, I will bloom. If not, I will go on broadcasting from this dark place. Somewhere beneath the bubbling grounds of coffee. Scorched by tap water. Come off a boil. Which is not so bad at all. For what I broadcast, to anyone who watches closely, is warmth.

Journal # 03.07.15

Someone will take me apart for sure. In me they will find a small treasure, not long for this earth. A heart which beats unexpectedly strong through all its scar tissue. The scars are dark and long, and tell of relationships all gone wrong. The beat is made in America, though it could be made in your beautiful country as well. It beats for silent mornings of fresh snow. It beats for nights long ago, drunk and high in magnificent clubs warehousing the dancing exuberance. Youth of Chicago. It beats for kittens come and gone, taken by dogs and cars and God. The scars hold the blood in. The blood is blue for me and you. The blood is purple mountains majesty. The blood has thinned in California, steeped in wine and sun and golden gate rouge. My system is a centrifuge. My dreams circulate. Making rounds of institutions. Geometry like a web. The architectural brilliance of our cities. I am but a little chaos in a lined and static blueprint. I am lost and found all over again. Take me apart. I'm yours.