by: Christopher Cranch (1813-1892)

THOUGHT is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought;
Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.

We are spirits clad in veils;
Man by man was never seen;
All our deep communing fails
To remove the shadowy screen.

Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet;
We are columns left alone,
Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart, though seeming near,
In our light we scattered lie;
All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company
But a babbling summer stream?
What our wise philosophy
But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the sun of love
Melts the scattered stars of thought;
Only when we live above
What the dim-eyed world hath taught;

Only when our souls are fed
By the Fount which gave them birth,
And by inspiration led,
Which they never drew from earth,

We like parted drops of rain
Swelling till they meet and run,
Shall be all absorbed again,
Melting, flowing into one.


Wolfpen Creek
by: James Still

How it was in that place, how light hung in a bright pool
Of air like water, in an eddy of cloud and sky,
I will long remember. I will long recall
The maples blossoming wings, the oaks proud with rule,

The spiders deep in silk, the squirrels fat on mast,
The fields and draws and coves where quail and peewees call.
Earth loved more than any earth, stand firm, hold fast;
Trees burdened with leaf and bird, root deep, grow tall.

What is a Poet?

“What is a Poet? To whom does he address himself? And what language is to be expected from him? He is a man speaking to men: a man, it is true, endued with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be common among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and volitions, and who rejoices more than other men in the spirit of life that is in him; delighting to contemplate similar volitions and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find them. To these qualities he has added a disposition to be affected more than other men by absent things as if they were present; an ability of conjuring up in himself passions, which are indeed far from being the same as those produced by real events, yet (especially in those parts of the general sympathy which are pleasing and delightful) do more nearly resemble the passions produced by real events, than any thing which, from the motions of their own minds merely, other men are accustomed to feel in themselves; whence, and from practice, he has acquired a greater readiness and power in expressing what he thinks and feels, and especially those thoughts and feelings which, by his own choice, or from the structure of his own mind, arise in him without immediate external excitement.”
—William Wordsworth (1770-1850), Lyrical Ballads

Let It All Go.

A Stream of Poetry:

So this is how it feels to to not give a shit. To let it all go. To throw a semester’s worth of work to the wind. This is a peculiar feeling, not exactly uplifting, but liberating. The anxiety is still there, and I don’t know if that’s something that will ever leave, fail or not. It perpetually manifests: success is holding it together, failure is watching it fall apart. Either way it eats at your consciousness. I’m so sleep deprived now. So so sleep deprived. What’s it been, three days? Four days? I’m so tired that I missed my final today. Of the only two exams I had, I switched their times around completely so that I didn’t even realize the mistake until I was standing in the middle of the empty room asking myself why none of my exams that day were in the rooms they were assigned to. It struck me eerily, like a foreboding prehension that I hardly wanted to accept. I nevertheless returned to the room I stood in earlier that day asking the same question to see if the prehension was correct, and it was. There were my little fellow philosophy peers amongst the filed rows of chairs, splattered around the room in no coherent fashion, waiting eagerly and anxiously for the exam to begin so they could be done with it.

So this is what it feels like to fail, to look your professor in the eye and explain that your all around lack of presence, in assignments and in the classroom, is a result of ‘mental problems’, and trying to live with yourself after it escapes your mouth. The pathetic words that echo back ‘excuses, excuses!’ and ‘how weak, how pathetic!’ and all the other jeering onslaughts of self abuse. So I finished one exam. I deserve a badge of effort, effort for not killing myself. So I slurp my beer, trying to drown the incessant thoughts rapping, rapping, rapping at the back of my eyes, those damn images. They never leave. No. The festering thoughts linger like the mucous in your mouth, always present and never a problem until there’s too much or too little. Either way, there’s entirely too much now, so I need to wash’em away, wash’em away with booze. Good’ol booze. The body killer, the liver lacerator, the mind melter: booze. The shit that makes you dull and happy and careless all at the same time. It makes you feel alright, makes you feel damn good. And damn good means feeling damn less, especially when you’re battling mental fatigue and those little insults begin worming into the cavities of self esteem. That’s when you know you’re in big trouble. When your esteem is in jeopardy.

So I recline in my bed, head and torso propped up with a few pillows, laptop on the stomach, sprawled out in boxers, pounding beer. And writing. Writing. Let that god damn itch work its way onto paper, into words. Get it out. Let it escape god damnit. I want nothing of it. Take my body, it’s nothing. Have it in its half naked drunken state. Its too tired and useless for me. So take it.

The therapist. Oh that man. That egomaniac man who’s as jolly as he is self absorbed.
Tell me about my problems, dear sir. I said I was feeling depressed. He said this was a result of narcissism. I said the anxiety was bubbling over. He said I was justifying my state through circumstances, a typical move he hears all the time. I say I don’t need drugs. He says I should get on them cause whatever I’m doing isn’t working. I say I need to change my environment. He says… See: narcissism.

Pabst Blue Ribbon. It’s supposedly a hipster beer, whatever that means. It’s a god damn good beer. Best cheap beer you can buy. 6% alcohol content. American (not that I give a shit). And it doesn’t taste like absolute shit. I actually enjoy drinking it, and would almost prefer it to any beer. Except, not really. I’m waiting for the sedation to kick in. The god damn ethonol, it’s pumping through my veins, through my cerebrum. I can feel it. It’s mind numbing. It’s euphoric, like a dose of ecstasy in a spat of dew, I like it and it rejuvenates, but only briefly before it begins working its anesthetic magic on my mind. God damnit its nice. Alcohol, my illustrious lover of long lappings. Lappings that span many a night. Me and her. The alcohol and my brain. Fucking and sucking until they’re exhausted and elated and dumb and happy all at the same time.

I haven’t gotten this much rawness out in a long time. Maybe it’s the fatigue, the sheer exhaustion that raped my inhibitions into a timid, meek, pathetic excuse for a censor. Either way. It’s nice. fuck you.

So upon leaving the exam I drove directly to the closest beer store and picked up a twelve pack. Minutes later I stripped my clothes off and began drinking, in my bed, with massive gulps, like the alcohol contained oxygen for my soul.

To my fellow zombies peering into web space: Stare at those images, yea, stare at them for hours, obsess over them, tell yourself you aren’t pretty enough, you aren’t good enough, then throw up, throw up the nausea that plagues your past time, your internet past time that thrusts and throbs itself over these images of warped wonder. The perfection doesn’t exist, but that doesn’t keep us from imagining it does.

Poetic Stirs

Colorful images seep synchronistically at the margins of my meditating mind. Shadows dance on the back of my eyelids. I open my eyes. The sweeping sound of rain pitters against the paned glass. The sky leaks onto the earth like a faulty faucet. I turn my eyes to the squinted blinds and observe: muted silver carpets of rolling moisture blanket the upper atmosphere and heather the heavens.  My mind baths in this stillness.

I think about the work ahead of me: fifty pages of writing within the next seven days. No easy task. The thought of it wrenches my gut.

My existence is binary; my mind, on or off. It teeters at the peak of propensity. Like a push car, once momentum is gained, it is an unstoppable force. Without the initial force, it lays unstirred, waiting, dreaming in quiet desperation for an impending impetus.

When I walk, I like to think that the world moves around me, like a standstill treadmill. The universe hinges on my perspective. All change is a discontinuous illusion extending from the reticent reaches of awareness. Life is but a recall of disingenuous memory. Labor and difficulty, a figment of flouncing imagination.

Warmth emanates from my underside. I lay prostrate. My supine stare fixes on the fan as it spins sedulous waves of coolness into my leeway of leisure.

I don’t have anything to say. I suppose my mind drifts to past relationships, with family, friends and females. Work, school, play.

Lovers. What is a lover? These intimate bodies are too numerous to value seriously. They multiply and divide and subside. What makes a lasting lover? The mark of friendship is the foundational formulation of any marriage of minds. Lovers are nice, but that’s about the extent. Friendship is much more rare. Much more loving and supportive and understanding. There’s substance that goes beyond the intimacy. That is how I judge these matters. Substance is to be prized above all else. The aesthetics of romance incite the passions, but the passions are prone to whither and change. Substance, real substance, principally endures. There isn’t sufficient time to spend chasing shadows and ‘licking the earth’, as Pascal puts it. I value a person’s values. That is appreciable substance.

Impotent Vaunting

The visceral. The palpable. The tenable. Words. All encompassing words. To describe me. My place. My voice. My lone lone voice. One of the many, howling. In despondent unison, in desperation for an ear, imploring that my voice be heard over the cacophony. That the blistering chords of my flesh might resound the ambage of a nonpareil, a salient diacritic among the clamor, worthy to be called a song. Such that the tellurian hosts fall silent to admire the lone harmony. Such that the empyrean emcee endow a moment to the sublime strain. So that my spirit may bask in a solarium for a second. That my breath may apprehend attention. That I may be righteously regarded. That my being may be born again.

Waves of abrasive discord resonate beneath the sauntering fog. The aural aubade lingers in the air. Nothing more than vacuous vaunting.

Truly. We all want to be heard. We all want to be noticed. We live in vainglorious times. Yet we throw ourselves into the throng. We crowd amongst the consonant backdrop of duly vehement masses for warm assurance: no more than a Fata Morgana. No sooner do we lose our voice. Who dares to stand on the high hills and hallow the hymn of their heart? The lofty limn is a lonely limn.

fall tonight

Automated. Routine. My heart beats. I put one foot in front of the other. I inhale cold dry sharp air. I slowly breath out steam that drifts just in front of my face. I idle. Partially in fear, partially in favor of the rewards for being patient.I lean a little to far in one direction and over commit. I reach for something to grab onto, anything to save me, but I’m already falling. It’s too late.

Confused and lost

Saturday, April 01, 2006

Confused and lost. Programming myself on a daily basis. I know too much for my own good. I don’t know what I want. I know what I don’t. I struggle daily with vices, addictions, motivating. I’m obsessed with learning, knowledge, acquiring it, putting it to use; and at the same time, totally wasting away because life is short and seemingly unfulfulling. Creativity can be practiced. You’re only as smart as you think you are. Know you are. What is my existence. It’s a cruel catch phrase. I want to catch something that will pull me along. Passions are postal stamps. You label your hobbies as cool. Nothing is filling. Negetivity will bring you nothing, show you nothing. I know nothing in the scheme of things. I think too much. I get headaches, heartaches, and stomache aches. I am conscious all the time. There is little I overlook. I say everything for a reason. But it doesn’t mean i mean it. I look past and beyond whats behind and in front of me, obstacles, you know. I realize my happiness is trivial when compared to yours. I hope your happy. Love exists only in the eyes of a blind man. Fortunately you can gouge your eyes out. I only plead with myself. Im very articulated and poigant. Picky, selective, particular but I’ll lead you to believe I’m not. I’ll please you, but your not special. Few read the credits. Who really cares about anyone but themselves. I can be your biggest fan. I believe in bliss. Lying to youself. Ignorance. I have a hard time dealing with reality. Reality is debatable. I can close my eyes. I escape too often. No ones special without a label. Power corrupts. Knowledge corrodes. Wisdom prevails. and all this means absolutely nothing.



Im sitting next to dead air while there is a garden of life outside my window. With this wooden chair sapping the life out of my body, i ask myself how much longer ill live. Ill walk and rub my face into the the wind. Skipping the cracks that divide my steps and grabbing onto passing trees. Humming myself a melody and look toward the setting sun- green lawnchairs are great for resting i mumbled. i found that lying in wet grass is more comforting than most feeble arms.

10:35 AM


Friday, August 05, 2005

Im sitting next to dead air while there is a garden of life outside my window. With this wooden chair sapping the life out of my body, i ask myself how much longer ill live. Ill walk and rub my face into the the wind. Skipping the cracks that divide my steps and grabbing onto passing trees. Humming myself a melody and look toward the setting sun- green lawnchairs are great for resting i mumbled. i found that lying in wet grass is more comforting than most feeble arms.

My spotless mind

my spotless mind

“i am forever working on finding you a reason to breath on” she said with a smile. my heart lightened and the grass grew all around us. she will be mine. no longer will i wrestle with the dregs of guilt or conviction. if its watering you want youve come to the right heart. i will spill mine as long as my heart beats for you. ive wispered this dream to myself before- id like to wisper it to you.

i disappeared. i will disappear. i got involved with the wrong people. involved with the wrong places. involved with the wrong things. i am ok. im not dead. i will be better.

Sunday, June 19, 2005