Good afternoon, intrepid wanderer! Thank you so much for mosying your way along to unwind in the warm glow of this computer screen. At least now you need only worry about the querulous and pedantic writing as potentially blinding. Opposed, of course, to the vexatious wind squalls so frequent with outdoor fire. Not to mention the occasional swig of the bootleg over-proof-moonshine. Please forgive any potential typos.
Welcome back to a new season of DPS! After a relatively lengthy “holiday” hiatus I am super stoked to dive back in here. I do appreciate your bearing with me, this is going to be a HUGE year! That’s right… I’m thinking about getting a second branded t-shirt manufactured. Meteoric is the manner in which I am rising. 🙂 Joking aside, I am looking forward to making some real professional announcements in the coming months. At worst, a few days per week are to be dedicated to curating and publishing fresh material on this, my favorite broken telephone booth.
Anyway, this poem feels like it may need additional meat for its interior. Please accept this, (maybe), truncated, quasi-flesh-less offering as I attempt to determine whether or not that is to be the case. Now it sounds like we’re sacrificing an anemic goat. And my schedule clearly states that’s not until 18:00 hours.
“Brain-box”, October 24, 2018.
Held within small fleshy vessel
Everything we are does nestle
All of our nights, trouble and joys
Christmas mornings unwrapping toys
Shattered bones, dark torment’s caress
Phone numbers and old home address
Books read, films watched, favorite song
Friends and those who don’t get along
Aggregate each day spent alive
How our consciousness is derived.
Again, I’m really excited for what 2019 has in store for us all, as individuals and otherwise. Truly we sit at this pure moment of pivotal change. For good or ill we are carving out a reality to which all will be held accountable. Every economic bracket, all races, religions, the irreparably deluded, coldly analytical and every single human in between and beyond. It’s far to late to back off this precipice, but perhaps, working together, we can fashion some sort of crude rope bridge across to an actually brighter tomorrow? More likely we’re all to be shattered ruins upon some dusty cavern floor… but I guess I’m just a fucking optimist.
Peace and love,
Happy Trails and Waggy Tales,
(Using, “Alexander”, professionally now. Seems stuffy, pretentious and unbearable. Perfect for a writer!)
A broken mind held together by cellophane and some tack.