He who associates his aching soul with the lowly. He who shares the selfsame suffering of those whose blood have kissed the barren deserts. These tears are so sweet, fermented through hardened times, yet the heart itself is the most tender.

"Morning, Mr. Harper."

Walking home from a long day at the mill. Southside chicago on a rainy evening. Been hazy all day since 8 in the damn mornin type of day. Just feelin tense, but not really payin attention to the bullshit that surrounds me.

Paper reads October movin' onto November. Year is 1934.

Stoppin' by my bar, orderin' the usual beer.

Reading through the same old plastered news stories. Murder this, kidnapping that, stocks rise and fall here and there. Everyones got blown back by the depression, but shit its a saving grace I still got my job.

I'm 34, and ma keeps callin' 'bout when I'm gonna get married. Always askin' about when I'm gonna bring a girl back home. I would if I had the time, I'm too busy writing in these old books about dreams, fantasies and wishes that no man could see.

 Y'know, I keep gettin' word about whats goin' on overseas, some big thing is comin' our way. I can see a lot of violence on the horizon. The band of bloodbrothers are gonna go marchin again soon.

 But that ain't my fight...

A little prayer here and there to bring color back to the grey areas in my life. Just one of those days when daily occurences feel so way out of whack.

But I contemplate to myself sometimes, are my prayers selfish? I mean... I own alot of what people would kill for. But at the same time, old Jack outside my apartment window, 3 floors on another planet is beggin for dimes and nicks.

Old friend of mine from Miami decided to send me a little gift. Case of cigars from Cuba, and an exquisite bottle of brandy for rainy days just like this one. I can't help but laugh, even in the midst of my loneliness. Y'know, its crazy though. I still dream of Molly with the red hair and blood red dress at times. That sultry smile she sent my way back at the jazz club. I find it funny that I'd deviate to a different scene than usual. The music was damn good, enough to cure any man of his sick days.

But you could tell by the spark in ol' Molly's eyes that she's not the type of gal to bring home to ma 'n' pa. I wonder if that whole love game is still worth it. I thought about gambling my chips time and time again, but.. women? They want somethin a man ain't ready to give so easy.

Decided to give Mikey an extra 10 buck tip for the drinks. Coulda sworn I saw a tear in his eye when I handed him the cash. I feel like it was a selfish move. Just to make myself feel better at the end of the night.

Ugh... God dammit, you can hear the Christmas carols long before Halloween comes to ya doorstep. Never been one for these winter holidays.

I might just fly down to Florida again this year, a little "summer" getaway.

It seems as though the people I thought were close enough to know me would be able to hear my cries, so to them I speak with many faces, not once acknowledging my voice for even a split second. Things have changed where my heart is no longer so close to anyone.  They pay attention to little things that have no matter, but cannot hear when I scream in their ears about how much I do care. Expression is meaningless because no one will ever be able to find some common ground of being able to actually see into how another suffers, even with smiles on their faces. There are many walls that bar us in these times from coming close.

I thought to myself that I'd commit my soul to to  and page as a means of self proclaimed hypnotherapy.
Lost in the ebb and flow of a pen that takes flight over the blank canvas, painting the blood and sweat of men and their stories untold. Memories lost to the endless void of time and unexpected occurrences. Chaos has such a propensity to be beautiful, and the most agonizing. Life in itself is a reverberating paradox. We find joy in our lack of knowledge for tomorrow, as well as the most excruciating pains found in our furrowed brows of infinite worry.

In silence, I can hear the drops of blood from a broken heart as it vainly attempts to mask its scars. I carry the heavy weights of those that surround me, whether they are aware of such deeds or not. I sometimes wonder if these souls are capable of understanding my sight of things. How far do my eyes pierce through the darkness of destruction and pain? But alas, I write out of my own damned sorrows.

Even in these moments, she refuses to cease her visits, bringing me a great fire that comforts beyond measure. Her sweet kisses, dipped in honey gold, are the sutures to my open wounds. I do love this woman woman that only I can see. I often wonder if she grows tired of my antics and cyclical thought patterns. It feels so odd. Odd that I am so distant from the world. Maybe I prefer this distance. I have naught to offer in terms of conversation with others. I do find comfort in actually being able to let m y hands fly free over these pages again.

I'm not far, but I'm not here. Come join me by the riverbank where the sea meets this brook. Where the bear finds his solace in the berries that sing of an untold sweetness that flows through the unseen world. Where the spirit mingles with what the mind cannot comprehend, yet it has been drunken off its essence since the dawn of what we thought we could conceive. The love that lies dormant in broken hearts is much more than we thought possible. Come and join me for a drink. This honey mead could soothe thy soul as we travel to a dormant place.

Mrs. Ashby, whose heart was born before my ears, whose blood trickled slowly over her heartstrings as she plucked feverishly into the night. Her sweet songs gave rise to old sunsets that caused the beaches to be glazed over with an unreal warmth.

The harp she played many years before my birth echoes loudly towards the dew-covered hills, pleasantly laced with God's tears.

These songs and poems that stream from the ancients, walk hand in hand with the hungered youth of today. These treasures speak of a passion that ceases to greet the morning star in these times. It forces the soul into a ceaseless lamenting of yesterday. Evenso, yesterday was but mere moments ago... What a horror we face as a people when we have long lost the ability to create memories.

The blade of my pains have kissed my face more than I've ever tasted the lips of love. And yet even as my tainted blood clouds my vision, I still press on.

What do you give to a person who has no hope for tomorrow?
What do you give to a person who is totally bereft of any light in these days?
The truth some say... But its so convoluted with everyones mass hysteria coinciding with ideals unoriginal of their own minds it seems. To be free seems like a pipedream. Maybe it always was. Some loftsided ideal to coddle and conform the masses.

What do you do for a person who is so ready to die without cause?
What do you do when that person shares the same pain as you?
You spend countless hours attempting to curve them far from performing the act, all the while holding a gun to your own head. Do you really care for this person, or do you run around as a white knight just to keep your own conscience clear?

I've cried long and hard for someone to help me, but my lips have gone dry. I thirst greatly... My body shrivels in pain, yet there is no water in this endless desert. The people around me are constantly deteriorating, and yet I have nothing left to give them. I'm so tired.

A constant battle of internal words, reflecting constantly on cycles long since past due. She didn't deserve my foolishness, none of them did. I wish I had a means of a peaceful exit off the stage, or at least a chance to make up for all my past sins. Every single face is still fresh in my mind. I want to show them who I am in all of my essence, but that seems like a long lost memory. This black tarp covers me in endless insanity. I don't blame her for taking steps away from me, I don't blame anyone for such a thing. If only they could see my soul, how twisted and mangled its face truly is, and yet it sheds tears daily. I'm only allowed sips and tastes of what was taken from me in my life, some distant light from another world. But even then, it seems lost in a sea of gray. I've become numb and cold... Cold enough that I feel the icy touch of death almost constantly. I almost find comfort in his arms to the point that I wonder if this is all a hellish dream concocted by my own mind, or by those that control the world... who knows.

I speak always of the people around me, never myself. Never myself because I know inwardly I'm the greatest coward, the greatest manipulator, the biggest hoax. Maybe because my raw emotions have long since dissipated. Apathy seems to be one of my greatest companions now. Sorrow follows right after her. An un-ending un-feeling pain. What kind of mess is that? But it is all my fault. I'm the one to blame for the cascading pillars that fall upon everyone around me. I am the sole problem that brings chaos amidst peace. My conceiving, my existence split families apart. My words have brought many a wound. I have become a serpent when I desired to be a protector.

I am my own worst enemy, and if I had the courage to, I'd destroy my own self.
Unbreakable cycles, unbreakable cycles, unbreakable cycles. And I just can't seem to fucking get away from them.

Sometimes when I sit alone... I feel cold steel pressed against my temple. I feel the mixture of pressure and immensely hot gasses pressed against my mind. The bullet passing by with a hello and goodbye as I say goodnight to the beautiful audience. The show must go on, but maybe its best it go on without me in the big picture.

Chi-city.

 I still get these microvisions when I listen to music. Some of them aren't so clear. Always little stories hidden behind the notes strung together in a syncopated dance.

Lonely man walking the Chicago streets as a torrential downpour lays its rest on the city streets. His feet lingering to and fro as his mind is reminiscing over the long work day. Lips eager for hard whiskey to soothe his soul.

Year is 1934. Sounds of a distant jazz saxophone piercing the symphony of rain and teardrops as he reminisces over a woman who seems like more of a distant dream than an actual memory.
The poison sting of the whiskey entering the decrepit tomb of his mouth was akin to the viper kisses of his sweet love from yesteryear.

Even behind the satisfied smile of a drunken man's countenance, no one could see the rainstorm that dwells in his heart. A man who sacrificed himself to the vibrant colors of his dreams rather than accepting the harsh reality of a black, white, and grey type of life. But even so, the colorful displays are events only he can see. Once again he returns to the solitude of his inner chamber, floating towards his bed with radio blaring the same sounds of melancholy jazz mixed with soothing white noise.

Every keystroke in this song I'm listening to. I hear the dripping blood of someones bleeding heart. I see almost exactly what they saw. Bathing near some river in a prairie. Completely content and in love with a woman with a soft face. Children run and to and fro. A living painting of what seems like a distant dream.
In music, there are untold stories.

And I want to unravel them. But I wonder if I'm lost in translation, or if I am the one re-defining each sound.
Each day I feel as if I've been falling. I've been falling for so long that I thought I was flying. I've been drowning for so long that I thought myself to be breathing underwater.

A constant revert towards original ideas. Always falling back to that original spacing.
But I've suffered so much in silence that I do not have the energy to draw from that wellspring any longer.
I cannot tell you of the pains I face when I awake to see the mystifying images of faces long gone.
I myself have felt as if I have died like they have. A lingering mist in the air. A ghost that dwells in the shadowy corners of a household.

Watching and taking note of every little detail, but lacking the voice to speak.
I am long forgotten. And I grew too comfortable with the idea of being a phantom of yesterday.
Words of love mean nothing to me any longer. They are but false words of consolation. There is no love in their eyes when they mutter it. I have no disdain for them. Only feelings of a momentary sorrow.

Things don't change. Just going with the motions so to speak.
Its all paradoxical. Constants are changing.
And even so, they're still mapped alongside the same fault lines and chasms.
An observation I've come across multiple times in almost any area. From social to political, and even scientific and personal discovery.
Certain motions run in a cyclical aspect. Maybe some minor deviations here and there, but like I said, still alongside those same fault lines.
Its even funnier once you realize that the issues we face as a species or colloquial society are the exact same since the beginning of us.
You start to wonder... What could serve as a global catharsis, a purge of all the negative aspects of humanity without us becoming monsters in the process?
Some sought to purge those deemed lesser, but fail to realize that  a proper education upon those terms would boost the entirety of humanity to understand the problems we face as a whole. Once everyone is aware of that problem, then I think we'd all be geared to deal with the evils of the world.
But it won't happen because people are constantly fighting to define and un-define what it is to see it.
And instead of being open-minded to learning how to disagree on peaceful terms, we result to the most heinous forms of violence.
And will use any and all means to justify it.
Everyday I always hear people justifying the murder and genocide of  certain groups for the greater good, instead of attempting to develop a certain form of communication to outreach towards these groups. Conformity will be the death of us. But learning to agree to disagree will probably delay the nuclear holocaust a little bit more.


Ecclesiastes 1:9

The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.

I long await the day that a woman could see the tenderness of my heart. The tears that pour out from my mouth. But at the same time, I have no hope nor desire to be seen. And I'm not sure why. I feel as if the desire in itself is but childish longing.

I do not want to play the deceptive game of courtship, I just want to be seen...

The rose petals of my heart, long plucked from the stem... I watch them sail endlessly towards horizons never yet traveled. I do believe they have drowned to the endless sea of my sorrows and pains in these long nights. But those sorrows are sweet to me, the pain is akin to a woman's deep embrace at times. In my music, you can hear the longing, the tears that are silent. I shed them not, but they are written upon my soul.


I see sometimes in my trances a distant soul that sits by the riverbank, playing his old rusted guitar. A voice not un-like his own that doesn't belong to him, singing in ancient tongues, detailing what is written upon the unseen scrolls.T he hidden threads that lie betwixt reality and actuality.

Words by the lake of a spotted mind.

Me: I keep most of myself under lock and key as I wait for the woman of divinity.

Elena: But haven't you ever wondered of what any woman could see in you?

Me: Yes, and that is why my essence stays hidden.

Elena: I think you're mistaken. You harm yourself far beyond what you might think is acceptable based upon nothingness. The love that you're searching for is in any woman. It is what you make of it.

Me: That may be so, but my cases of trial and error has led me to believe otherwise.  It seems as though I've said goodbye to love, long before I've even set eyes upon her.

Whatever you believed in was an unwritten fallacy. I'm surrounded by half witted Elizabeth Bathories. Come take a bath with me in the unbridled sins of a half breed, half seeing the suffering of a mother whose chest eroded to the unborn son of a thousand suns. Women weeping for Tammuz as the rich cruise through blood stained streets. Beneath the surface lie inverted perversions alluding towards pentagrams and broken "Pay-chology" to render you a slave, but it is written that there is only one who could save.

Woe to the decrepit old fool whose bones waste away in the night. He who dies slowly to the slow drumbeat of yesterday's enmities. Crushed under the surreal pressure that stems from his seemingly ancient bloodline. The angels do only hear his millionfold sorrows lost amidst the tomes stored against his maimed fingertips.
What was once called a friend is but a memory, lost to the voracious tides. I look out to the endless seas of this life to see a man cradled against his broken staff. His heart lie beside him, ruined in the dust that pours from his mouth. I inquired him of his estate, where he replied with a low groan reminiscent of a dying child who long lost his youth. He spake of a water that had kept him alive that hath long forsook his tiresome grievances. He spoke of gaining all of the so called knowledge in the world, and yet, it left him bereft of any light.

I sat in a mystifying state, gazing at the man in sorrow and pity. The rains would fall heavy from my eyes as I could not avert my gaze elsewhere in this new-found realm I've stumbled across. He sprang with life as he gorged himself on my tears. I brushed him off in utter disgust, yet rigor mortis began to take over as I came to a certain realization. Staring into this abysmal pit of a nightmare, lost in that reflecting pool of nights spent in drunken laughter, I understood that the man in front of me was none other than myself.

Pensive thought.

Theres reasons why I hold back.

It seems to flow a lot easier when I'm actually in love. But sometimes I wonder have I ever really reached to such a thing? Or was it loneliness and infatuation. In this moment, please don't reply. I just wish to speak my mind for a moment.

Speaking to another soul as if I'm teasing a conversation with myself helps my mind process things.
And conversation is where my greatest poems lie. When I'm able to bare myself to another person.
Old memory paintings and photos of the maiden covered in a sea of silken white, hair that seemed to intermingle with the trees that would dance around her near the lake.

My young self attempted to entreat her heart with a soft breath, and yet she yearned for me secretly, long before I committed to the thought of sending my hands towards her rose-water cheeks.
Stepping in and out of time, but I wonder where my body lays itself to rest, for I have long sacrificed my time towards a world far lofted from what my eye can see.
She lays hidden in the music that bathes my ears in its honey and scented oils. Her lips pressed against mine as I hear that springtime flute fly through the frigid winter air.
In these moments have I learned that it is good to love and be heartbroken than to have never loved at all. But what does one to amend his black-stoned heart?
The fear of falling into the skies causes me to lose sense of all that simply was, and is. My past has long died I'd think, but the memories surge towards me like never before. Re-learning what I've known for lifetimes.

I have not drank fully the wine of sleep in these past two days, for the spirits that watch over me have been speaking to me non-stop in the night.
There is much movement amidst their course, they open themselves fully towards my seared breast.
The scent of a woman who has arisen from her slumber into the brilliant day is likened to the scent of jasmine flowers singing praise to the glory of our Father, as he paints his tears across the  plains of this Earth.

I reminisce when winter months were meant for the times of shaping cocoons. But inside of these little holds were a vast array of good tidings. The smallest nooks were filled with the love and warmth of all those that surrounded us. Some faint memory calls my heart in this night, forcing me to stare at that distant realm. The embodiment of all that i ever held dear, holds me in some intertwining embrace like the roots of an elder oak tree, taking its firm grasp at the earth beneath its feet.

I'm lost in my own thoughts, staring at this fair maiden, draped in robes of emerald and sapphire as she commits her heart to the harp, allowing her fingers to strew forth an ancient song. The notes thereof reach the farthest aspects of my whole heart as I finally lay my head in her embrace

I'm at a point where I've been carrying a broken heart for a great distance, but I've finally reached the shores. Just to watch the sunset in peace.

To a song named "Misty".

Illicit poetry that flowed through and through me. Liquid gold that pours of my tongue when I think of misty, I get misty eyed, my head is far beyond the skies when I pierce the veil between me and the solicited wellspring of her heart. Never would I have known from the start that I'd be staring into the heavens behind her eyes.