Book

This book has no beginning, middle, or end; just a juxtaposition of moments, thoughts, memories, poetic failures, morphed dreams, lucid love, transient sickness, and genetic recording. From time to time there's an inspiration that keeps you going. Some days or months you are stagnant in life, love, structure, health, and even intelligence.

Finding a way to marry the old & new has been a battle. When it all comes into focus the exposure can save your sanity. There's no cycle in this life, battle, or system. We live, stretch, cope, and speak within a recognized relevance and propel the muster of gumption between our hours of sleep & work.

Markers, ink ones, staked ones, they are tools. We use them to bookmark, locate, and draw aesthetic flow. Giant numbers, films of films and roadways to somewhere, no where, there, and everywhere. Broken guitars, strings of solitude, and music that provides a religious release.

Houses are built to live, protect, and clothe our naked, exposed, lives. When we shelter ourselves in the inconvenient, convenient, style that America (particularly) is good at we end up, ironically, not having a defense system. Guns. Guns, are the defense, or not. There's a false security everywhere in the world. The entitlement of our current generation will be a significant element to a crumble society, but how will we rebuild it this time?

Mindless rambling of an artist. My thoughts, my river, my time. You read, respond, anticipate, assume, project, and place value. This "book", a symbol, is not mine, yours, theirs, hers, his, it's, or attainable by any atom. Science verses what? How will this book contend with the "BOOK"? How will you add a chapter, sentence. Respond.

Posting, publishing, functioning. I. AM. HERE. Solid, burnt, Midwest, scarecrow, pulsed, and pummeled. Respond.

And then, some days, I just wanna play the slide guitar.