Scenery drained from my eyes with every movement. Fast
or slow, meticulous or messy.
It was then that I became aware of the sickness of my
In brilliant sunshine, the navel-gazing narcissistic cynicism
coughed up all its secrets.
I could be like the rest. Hibernating for seasons not
spent under the influence of drugs or jail. There was
no reason –
unless I gave meaning. I had long assumed that game surrendered.
Still, I breathed oblivious to the rat-race, packrat mentality –
the sterile Byzantines, the necrophiliac Philistines: and the
allergic intellectuals masquerading as poets, prosodists, even pedophiles.
I was desperate in the desire to be ordinary.
It would be a laughing matter next century.
- excerpt from THE TRANSITS OF REVELATION,120 pages, $13.99