poems of exile

About the Book

With my mind in a solemn abyss of thought, with no direct association to anything, no new theories, & no security or validity for the previous ones, I still find an ordinary pleasure in placing the pen in my right hand & touching its tip to a blank page, dispersing its ink, shaping it into known hieroglyphs we've adapted as the written language. A vacant simplicity dictates this moment; a dedication to nothing, a blank stare into the forum of meditation, a swarm of boils in the existentialist batter.

Within the pit of society I look within

About the Author

I couldn?t have been that much in earnest when I proclaimed to my feeble visage in the mirror that I am through with writing, since here I am, utilizing the pen?s endemic flow. Like a carpenter fills space by building I tattoo the page by writing. It is one of the few joys I have. That is why I relegate myself to so many dramaticisms of ?I will? ?I won?t?. This process of intellectual animation is of a personal nature, & as all things that I sympathize with I feel a little animosity towards them as well.

I perceived three distinct scents today that I could not place in my surroundings. Possibly a sense memory?of roasted sunflower seeds, horse manure, & cotton candy.