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+ 2	Waiting
0	Visions of Socky
+ 2	In This World, Witnessed Power
0	When We Meet Again
+ 1	Love, Astral
+ 7	hbhgfh
+ 5	Taco Mik - Excerpt
+ 3	Excerpt from YOTS
+ 4	My Nutty Friend Meg
+ 5	In The Universal Mind (preview)
+ 3	Excerpt - Disc. w/ Mad Jamon
+ 3	Journal entrie's from 2006
+ 3	The Cardboard Box (chapter two)
+ 5	The Cardboard Box
+ 4	Ode to An Angel
+ 3	March Foorth
+ 9	She said, "Yes! Yes! Yes!"
+ 6	March Theerd
+ 3	Changes'a Many
+ 1	The Dharma Bums

1.  This is a short preview of the current autobiographical fictional non-fiction novel I'm writing. So far it's been a week, and I've left out about 2 pages.

 With the hectic schedules, routines, have-to-do's of the financial-growing, hunger-feeding, greed-fulfilling of this planet and the woes that once struck me with worry, sadness, the feeling that I myself was a never-ending cat walking the lone road in search of its prize: The Great Ball of Yarn, the Holy Grail of Humankind all around. With woes ever coming, ever-lasting, changing, manipulating the senses and frontal lobes of a person while dangling that edge of cheese far, far above their head, letting the drool splash to the foot of the Master of Time holding the prize for efforts so deemed, earned, half-assed and rewarding for another day in another buck.
 With the only thought pondering and pondering the Western world in this Earth was being able to escape on a glorious day, an escape from reality, slipping into unconsciousness and the subconscious with open eyes, an expanded mind across the broken-free rusted lock that's been drying ever since time began, and the winding clock was ticking, ticking, ticking for every single being with an up-to-date slap in the face.
 With the winter chill creeping far behind my back, the cool-freezing blow of the lonely nights and days in past had taken its toll over an innumerable amount of daydreams, wants, hopes, and dreams of escaping - to another plain of existence and reality - from the euphoric rubber-like plasticity and elastic-wrapicity of the stale, plain-white canvas board before my roaming, wandering, observant eyes. Taking my arms, legs, and head into the spread-out pillow-formed clouds of the now warmed, relaxed and smiling skies so ahead where the answers of all, nothing, and inward truth lies. Away, away, AWAY from the fear, tension, mistrust and invalued ones whom'd given birth to my name, the named label for human number three-hundred-million-two-thousand-and-six-hundred-two-hunnerd-and-fiftyseven, born in the frozen Lakes of the Great White Frozen North, home to some of the whackiest, craziest, maddest and most polite citizens wandering, wandering through their backyards in search of something more, something else to get them through - right at the end of the global countries just before entering the land of desolation, isolation, and frozen land as far the eye can see.
 All you need is a video camera, journals, music, and the endless search for a higher understanding. An escapade of a clarified means of existence. A justified rhythm of compatibility of self with others. An urge, a clear purge, and the diverse attraction of the unknown speaking clearly from the shadows of the forest so calling the Year of The Snake slithering aimlessly on the Scales of Balance.

  On one scale laid a need, desire, want, basic understanding of who I am and where I've been with a maniacal grin with the puff of a cigarette and a chug of the whiskey bottle as I had written, "Start a wild riot; you are laying tired; vacant swills in fire; we won't own a thing above the splotches, spurt, puddles leaking out from your grace.  Implode several continents of curiosity.  Watch the homeland separate in explosion.  Beasts cage, tamed, and stung with lies until they cannot see" in my coverless journal that was the dead-end equivalent of hopes, thoughts, and the creative edge tittering away, scratching at my fingertips. The Earth around was cold, the sun was setting, the streets were fields that never die, and the clouds were forever portraits showing the way to true being.
 On I wrote, "Dust clouds formulative projects. Recipe (one by one, drop two drop, rising smoke observe counteract and deploy, out of boundary and they could not add mediums within their limits) for the perfect caliber of our mixed physic, mental, personal, psychical attributes of our beloved estate - networth about as much as we could scarf on entertainment." I grew tired, I grew tired and I grew more tired with each word pounding at my skull, and I can remember sighing with heaviness and walking across the street to the local store, aching for some good ol' Whisky so I could howl along to "Alabama Song", and I tell you we must die.
  I tell you we must die walking in the entrance of the store in the March Madness of 2005, with the cashier looking sullen with her head tuned to the daily entertainment magazine - her sultry red-dark-blood hair dangling just above her shoulders in clumps and masses; dirty rang her lips as I slowed my walking and acted as The Invisible Man adoring the girl that studdered my heart so, with her smooth fleshed shoulders in the delicate tapping  softness of her fingers as her eyes glistened with boredom of her day-to-day workplace hours.

* Standing there behind the counter, counting her change.
 Never had I before seen such a welcomed face.
 Red-hair blossomed, hanging low in shine.
 Her eyes bringing a warm smile to this cold season.
 I saw her there, and she said..
 "How are you?"
 She saw me there, and I said..
 "Good, because of you."

 She smiled a warm smile and took my lottery ticket.
 Cashing it in and turning her back to me.
 Her arms graciously flipping through numbers and checks.
 She walks across the floor with a sliding grace.
 I could not take my eyes off the way she moved.
 Elegance and purity, a soft-calming voice had soothed the worry.
 Quick flashes of what could be, the best human emotion to breathe.
 I could see the two kind spirits facing each other holding hands.

 I saw her there, and she said..
 "What else may I help you with?"
 She saw me there, and I thought..
 "I would like to feel your kiss."
 She kept me in the eye, and she said..
 "Sir? Is there anything else?"
 I kept her in the eye, and I said..
 "No, thank you, miss."
 She smiled her warm smile, and she said..
 "Thanks, come again soon."
 I smiled her a warm smile, and walked away.
 "I'll return to see you."*

The momentary limelight in the horizon faded as I walked out the door, slightly impressed and well with myself of courage normally found without the strength of discussion. Why had that fear always controlled the previous aspects of my life? A question to be answered as I then searched for inner-discovery and a found basis of understanding that perplexed even the most knowledgable questions, doubts, fears, hysteria, mass-slaughter of the spirit lieing within. Move, move, move through life questioning everything, weighing truth from fact from faux from complete bullshit - why was matter presented in professional means more acceptable as truth and order of history than sloppily-designed lies? In normality: Cover a rotten apple with enough whipped cream- strawberries and it'd look a five star meal.
 Sometime while pondering that over as I walked into my car (model) and drove down to the local beach as the minutes dwelled faster, faster, with near temptation to drive the sun out of view.
  From the time my bare naked feet touched the softly-natted and newly cut grass of the hill just below my gaze to the moistened texture of cool, gushing sand oozing above my toe's buried in the shore with the low-tide that came in, as it left a small space of land to be cleansed of all Eartly intruders. I am Human number three-hundred-million-two-thousand-and-six-hundred-two-hunnerd-and-fiftyseven intruding this Earth, as I invaded the privacy of the public area of the fields and backyards of the mansion-like houses that were some yards away. I gathered bunches of twigs, sticks, and dead-dry leaves in a circle and set the sombitch on fire and rested myself on the cool-naked gentle miniature hill, treated it as a recliner and rested my hands in the back of my head, taking a slow drag of the Camel Mellow cigarettes, as I was lost, lost like the wanderer below the stars wishing for more, more, more in lust of all that they do not have. What I did not have so direly dreamed since childhood memories have shown, a lingering sensation in my head just spoke softly, "You will be known around the world, you will be known around the world."
 
 

 In a mixture of beauty and sensation as the taste of the air lightly bothered the tip of my tongue, a calming rushing wave of nostalgia for that cashier's smiling lips that burnt my eyes like shining ember and a rushing wave of tranquility, lost deeply inside the lustful grace, that peculiar voice, and the oh-so teasing locks of strandish hair flowing. How I wished for her hand around mine that night. How I longed for her soft, sweetly tainted lips against mine, overlooking our gaze to the Godess of Beauty that is the expanding skies above, an open-mind and an ever reminder of possibilities, then as it glows red-fleshed amber and dashes of purple sprays of flashed oceancides, waiting to be admired by the two admirers in hand below.


* I've never seen beauty in anyone else,
 that has ever been before.
 Than when I looked into your eyes,
 and found what it meant to be
 wondering how love could grow.
 As you fade beneath the sun.
 And I find the beauty unknown.
  As the light shall strike across your grace.
 And I - Realize what I haven't said.
 As I would walk with you beneath the sun.
 Lost inside the beauty of your smile.
 Walking beneath the sun.
 Keep us close to our hearts.
 Walking beneath the sun.
 Is this love or just a second half
 that has left me blind?
 Without eyes - I still see your beauty
 walking beneath the sun.*

 Beneath the sun I's laying on the cool-matted wooly, roughed textures of the faintly moisted grass as the last puffs of the Camel Mellow cigarette was flicked into the bushy strands of weeds to my right, and on the left - thousands of crittered mites huzzing and blowing across the over-bearing, breathing moth-eaten weeds swaying in the wind. With the song of all songs - the unheard-of melody and relaxing tempo of a flaring beat matched by the simple three-chord strings of a vibe that's one of soaring the dream-like oceans temperament and splash of freedom leading everywhere in the world - echoing in my ears, complimenting the soary-burnt embered hills and rushing waves of the skies fading to the inkiest of blacks and most crescent of blues spreading truth, mystery, wonder and shuddering fears as the creatures - controlling the outback, wetbacks, and riversides - make their way through the plains, the plains we pass-by and watch in our backview mirror's and backward glances to see fading step by step, inch by inch, mile by mile until it's gone, gone and forgotten  as it lays dusted in the cupboards of our minds - behind all the cluttered thoughts, the milisecond forms of abstract processors working over-time in the artist that is the person, and each and every single person and artist and mad man and sane individual and insane genius and walking zombie knows.. trying to understand what is  past and why it cannot be grasped, grasped and held into our chest lockets to be worn-out, overplayed, and turned horribly tired.
  With the inkiest of blacks and most crescent of blues high in the skies, a moonlight drive seemed most opportunistic on the road the road that leads everywhere and almost half the traveler's before my generation were led to nowhere land with nowhere man making all their nowhere plans for nobody. As I drove away from the glorious jeweled beach, I began to think about the time I was in the backseat of the family car (model) as a child and was watching people fill up their Toyota's, Sedans, and Ford trucks with gasoline and I knew then with a shuttering instant that I did not want to be the nobodie's they were with the life they led, the food they ate, the homes they slept, and the duties, tasks, stress, and worry they lived. Working day-to-day jobs slaving away mindless hours. What had it meant to have dreams since childhood only - and those held-dearly, loved and cherished in oh-so-hopeful desires to fulfill those dreams - shattered slowly, carelessly, demandingly by older age and society demand? Money, money, money and a quick buck for a long fuck of the soul as your inner-you slowly dwindles like a bored candle-flame, until finally you've strayed from the path of your childhood self far too long and it lays deceased wiith a sad, mournful, and disappointed look upon its corpse.

  I was living the sad, mournful, and disappointed corpse inside my encaged, formally slaved mind. Goverened by other's thoughts, other's dreams, other's sane, mundane trite redundant cycles as I felt each too the people I greeted were living the mourned corpse which we speak, see, hear, touch, and taste, but what of complete stripping of the senses?
 WAKE UP!!
 Considering actions to apply ways, new foundations, lessons, moral duties and a right to freedom of self in this here world; free from doubt, fear, paranoia and the people I so direly left back there over my shoulder in my (description) hometown. For this wonderful chance to relax on the roof of my (car) underneath the shining stars, luminous lights glowing in the far distance as the cool, jeweled moon was a faint reminder of the shining incorporated stark, mystical mystery that lays, resting in the corner - waiting to be discovered by the mad people who dare to challenege the norm, the formed way to live, the so-called leaders and hierarchy's of generations since first humankind laid their bare-naked feet on the soil and declared independence. Since then, it's lead to the twentyfirst century in it's fifth year, fifth year, third month, thirteenth night below the smog-ridden, fumed-breathing majestic beauty I refreshingly inhaled with a sigh of relief in this seventh hour, as the centuries' old teachers extend double-sided claws wiry and vain, smooth as talons thorns; ripply, edged, curved and ready to strike with such force - swirling delicately like a woven-spun tail of smoke flowing aimlessly through the currents of the air in the night.

 Out here where humans are made to breathe, made to need, made to think and contrive every possible mad sensation of self, others, discovery for the dear earnest truth so manipulated and forgotten by people over the years. Out here life is. Life is. Out here life is. This, that, there, when, how - none of it matters for not a single-second as the breathing courses of this so-dear wandrous frontline of rush'  lays as the subject: We are the observants. The painters. The observant painters and mime recorders. I began to let all the thoughts flow, flow like the rivers producing poetry in the crystalized-shined moon, glancing it's way with pearly diamond eyes:

*A beautiful adventure to bestow our purpose with, the base welcoming - greeting - fields and lilac's surrounding our feet.
Following desires to experience true beauty with what it's worth, lust, greed, empathy to grasp within ourselves - the sun is rising along with smiles spread across the land. Oh human mind, why must we be so endless and free? So begins the thought into the journey of climbing this wondrous thigh rising to the clouds, our single goal of touching the sky, discovering a clean window to observe true five senses of what remains in our skin. Our skin touch and roam free amongst each other. One with the world, one with ourself. I start my journey up this mountain..

 Now..Lemme imagine running my existence upon your neck, creating a vast silence of prayer for the beauty amongst my eyes only imaginable in the deepest loved dreams.  Running my fingers through the plains, every speck and inch of nature's glorious ecstacy takes itself upon my breath. Does she stutter? Does she moan? Does a trickle of warmth fulfill her love just as the ones before her have traveled? A smooth fine line between divulging forth and indulging with, join us now. I can see the sunlight rise just above the mountains as it welcomes my smiles, my air, touch and smell. Welcoming my presence. I'm grateful to be walking amongst this perched path I've learned to stray upon..Where shall I go? What uncovered treasures lay before me? We must find out..

 Curves, paths, so many distances to take myself upon, take every possible thought instance to find myself drawn to. Inhale the sweet nectar of the surface, what lies beneathe? What lies ahead? I swallow my nervous habits of hesitation. INDULGE and go forth! Sliding myself upwards this beautiful mountain. Upon witnessing the top, an otherwise unattainable focused wonder. My mind wanders into my unconsious weep for being acknowledged..Acknowledging this strength. This 9th wonder of the world. The only world to exist now for I, the soothed settler, to this, the smoothed plains, the only care for now I have to reach the top and suck the eternal drought of life. The outer skin is flowing with a dampened welcome as I take a sip, gracefully allowing my lips to saviour its sweet and Holy touch. I'm born again from a seemingly unlived universe long thought forgotten. Bliss, nirvana, wealth, all reasons in beautiful length set here. I've reached my destination..WAKE UP!!*

 My hand stopped scribbling, etching, writing and sweating with the pencil clasped fiercly in my palms with the cramps, as I shook out of a trance and was temporarily confused about to where exactly I was, who I was, where I had come from and why I was here in this four-roomed blue-painted room, thinking these thoughts, holding this pencil and writing the poem that read,

 "*[Madd Applie Pie]*"

 before the sense and understanding dawned like the dawn of the first Spring's dawn and newborn awakening with the clock striking now ten-o-clock PM.
' Had I blanked out the last two hours' was the only thought at the current moment. Where had I gone? What had I done in the world of justice and variable injustices to tip the balance of all that's right in the world? Right or wrong, left or right, write or keep on procrastinating against the minutes that pass like they never cared about what they did to your Father or Mother or your Father and Mother's child. An entire moment of moments blinked out of existence, dwelling in the subconscious of an unconscious individual well aware calmly before the gentle stars blew a cool breeze against the house. "Yes, yes, yes, it's all making sense now, yes. That's how it's done, yes." Turning the page of the journal and beginning a new journal entry; a new beginning, a new baby born into this far corrupt, sad, near-exinction of dignity and changless world.
  Of what to explain?
 Silly questions to the ponderers whom doubt themselves and spend unnessecary seconds going over the trials, the needed, the main focus they taught about in preschool. Pay attention, class! This now this now is what you must do: Tell the world about you, tell the world and I did, I wrote as if the entire world was watching before me, as I were a performer on a universal stage with luminating-blinding lights as I sweat profusely over the right words, the right words of this wrong world so thought to be conjured out of nothing - idea's and images coursed through my mind in search of an explanation the conscious was locked into." Don't worry! I'll free you!"
  I jolted at the lock and ran down the page in fury, agony, with intense fire burning at my fingertips and a now soaked lip from biting, trying to contain the words oozing out my eyelids and brain. Scientist, scientist, when will you uncover my remains of this ruin thought only to be a myth? I am waiting.
 
 "*[The Man I Knew]*"

 An overactive brain pulsing with ideas, madness, outbursts of the unspoken word now clawing, digging, scratching its cage waiting to be heard - with now blistered fingers refusing to allow one more word of the pen as I'm sure the paper was mighty joyous ol' Kurt [name] couldn't write anymore out of the lack of limited fingertips. Practice, practice, practice. A jackass would say "masturbating strengthens your hands," while a wiseman would say "Smacking jackasses strengthens courage," and with that thought in mind I relaxed a bit on the couch trying to calm the storm, the eyeball, the piercing perspective collision of waves banging up on the easy shore now crumbling away, soiled and mud-ridden. Calm down, son, calm down as the melody of several acoustic songs play a ballad, a delicious voiced-woman singing lullaby's for her love, gently caressed before her breast, a soft tippity-tappity-tockity of the drum sticks slightly tackiting against the rims of a cold, steel, drum.
 Enough rest was enough rest and one brain-calmer is Music Television: MTV. But it wasn't rest. It wasn't rest, for the moment that arrogant, commercialist seizure-inducing logo appeared I began writing with such a despising growth for the architects of mainstream, the murderers of originality, dignity, artistic integrity and creative endeavours in the music industry today. Indeed as the snow is white shall the television be the proper time for shutting your intelligence off for but a moment and allow complete and utter stupidity to swallow your being whole for a few moments. Those few precious moments wasted - for no human, no matter how enduring, everlasting, and stamina one possesses - must not keep on the road they're walking or risk getting burnt in that glorious steaming sun weighing down on your soul.
  Out of laziness, I began mindlessly writing down what was wrong with MTV and the general media commercialism. Their need to sell, sell, sell the products for us people to consume and consume again; overglorifying sexuality, disrespect amongst women, making once-thought beautiful, smooth, raving women into whores, prostitutes, crazy skank-cladded annorexic cunts in music videos to make the mindless teenager of this generation subconsciously say "that woman is lookin' good. I need to buy that CD by that artist!"; so-called musicians taking riffs and melodies from previous, actually original and talented musicians, and sampling the basic beats and adding their own untalented twists, their own redundant turns, mundane raves, socially accepted craves and elementary lyrics - completely destroying the once beautiful, classic song of the past (while the musicians in the mainstream spotlight media create pretentious garbage that sounds like every other talentless band projected into the mainstream spotlight).
  It's been done since the first song in the first world began and now it's become the greatest trend of the twenty-first century due to it's simple-and-easy tactic to bring in the big bucks for capitalist America. Capitalist America. There's no home of the brave, there's no land of the free. In this land of corruption you are sentenced to jail for speaking your opinion and protesting the American governments, Presidents, and corporate sponsors. All the great protestors whom were murdered and "commited suicide" proved this testament time and time for the younger generations to learn and live from. "That's the bad man" children are taught by the foolish parents of the world, yes, not just America, the entire world.
 I cursed my curse and swallowed a few muscle relaxants to calm my nerves and soothe my aching hand, though there was no cure for the creative mind. The mad mind. The mind deemed insane by several individuals who've never seen anything like the mind of the mind that never sleeps, never cries, never silenced no matter how many times the mouth it owns has not spoken, the mind searching for justice, truth, peace, compassion, and a moral understanding of self. Pursuing freedom of personal salvation and acceptance from the hundreds of societie's in this damned world.

 This damned world contained within four pages of scribbles, rambles, and the imbalance of everything found wrong within the soul decisor and personal belief structures. This damned worl packed into a plain-white envelope and specially sealed with saliva, the dearest saliva for the girl behind the counter, the girl whom caught my eyes several hours earlier, the girl behind the counter whom with her red glossened hair had woven me mad with lust for her embrace, envious of whatever hand graces hers, mad with instant love and what it'd be to know the kiss of a pained, isolated heart desolate in a field of loneliness and a desert of abandonment, all fleeted for the moment when the kiss of such a desert meets another with matched desolation, though you'd never assume anything unless someone brought it up. The envelope now marked "Y.O.U" sat on the bench-table in a lonely state of loneliness. Paper of all things, feel just much like humans. Used. Wanted. Abused. Torn to shreds. Ripped apart. Sliced open for their insides to be exposed and all that's invisble. Just air and a blank area of space like the many of people watching what I'm watching on the television. But we're not watching what we're watching on the television: We're emptying our minds of any thought, any feeling, any regard, disregard, or command from the signals in our brain. We're emptied of our natural thoughts so we may just for a few seconds be completely nothing, watching the Music Television that is nothing, and be completely void of being absolutely anyone that could ever mean anything within this four-roomed cardboard box.

 Off with the television! Off with the blare of the horrendous music! Off with the beheading of talent as we know it! For the aspirations at that time were not to politely rebel that which I found detasteful, but of a completely new understanding; a cleansing of all the structured environments, forced manipulations and blaring BUY! BUY! BUY-products of the business world, escape from escapades of the generation. And with doing so began with the lighting of a relaxing cigarette after I warmed up a cup of Lovely Yellow tea that laced together herbal formula's of this gorgeous world from the outskirts of Turkey or wherever the hell any of us are from, and the contemplation of new levels of consciousness and how to attain those levels on a standard basis.
 All's well and far ahead, the journey to run, run, run like the mad, ravished, and caged beast springing from its prison to other universes of the sky, of the self, of the other, and most of all: What anything means at the end of the night. At the end of time. At the end of the road we label so.
 With several hours to waste; waste with thinking, procrastinating need-to-do obligations of absolutely nothing that occupies other people in the world..Left me in a gazing stare at the ceiling on a suede-matted bean bag chair, thinking about the lips of the sweet, rare beau met several hours ago. What's her name? What does she like? What does she eat? How does she taste and what does she desire? How does she think and will she ever think of me? What will she think of my words so long and only for her eyes and soul? Will she ever stop and whisper on Saturday's shore? Which love could ever ever ever ever ask for more?

 Rather comfortable in a silent room for a good while, to hear the wind blow against the house, the irritating vehicles and their ever-consuming gas mufflers and stupendous, absolutely horrific rap music playing at decibels far greater than they should, the refrigerator humming a cycle of moans, hums, and groans grown accustomed to; all in the whirling sense of a complete circle. One out-of-the-circle sound, mishap, or freak out atuomatically sets off a displeasant inner-belonging of a miniature routine and neccessity for self to just take yourself completely away from wherever you're sitting, whatever time you're in, as you close your eyes and slip into unconsciousness and dream a different state of mind - the only hope left dwindling at the bottom of your oh so sincerest and most vulnerable heart.

 Dawn broke and I cleaned up the mess of the one-roomed shack and took a step outside to breathe the frozen air and hear the chittering birds, as I took a seat on the dew'd yard and planted myself firmly, awaiting the wonderful spectacle of the purple/blue/yellow mixtures of swirles and something. Morning found me calmly unaware as the rising sun burnt gold in my hair.

 In the late hours without sleep makes for loss of inhibitions, more stamina, a sense to attempt what fear lays in an otherwise 'normal' mindstate that is with the 'sober' thoughts, as I stepped into my car, ignited the engine, and revved it, revved it towards the store where I was sure the store was open as I hoped then that the girl behind the counter was working her tedious affair, much to her dismay and gladly to my joy and whoop's-for-damn's when I walked in the store with envelope in hand and she stood there, as beautiful and luminating as the day before. She returned my stare with her own and saw right through me, all my plans, all my thoughts, idea's, deepest secret fears and every ounce of love I'd like to give her, surrounding me in her complete essence with the tingling scent of her on my lips. She saw through it all and still managed to smile my way before entering her glance at her "POP!Ular" magazine about what I didn't care for. Walking past the counter, placing the envelope on the desk before her and slyly making my way to the back of the store looking for a good brew. I'm going to need it later. Stalling time out of fear of what she might think, my previous attempts with confronting women usually resulted in them giving me disgusted looks, shrugs, "I don't care"'s, and "ew"'s. Hmmm, I wonder which brew I'll go with today? I'm feeling like a Samuel Adams Lager straight from Boston. Open door. Grab case. Close door. Walk to cashier.

 She asked why I handed it to her, she had a confused smile as my heart leapt at the sound of her voice, once again, the voice you'd love to be sung whilst you driftly fall asleep in bed, with her running a hand through your hair and breathing her hot breath over your eyes, it was just feminine enough to carry her words gracefully around the mixture of pronounciation's yet low-pitched enough so she didn't sound like a prepriffic squeaky-cheering and most loathsome happy-happy-joy-joy "oh my gawd"'s and "no way"'s.
 "It's something I've never done before."
 She read through the second page and still looked confused and asked what kind of a weird person I am.
 "The best and worst weird person you'll ever meet in your life, man."
 She dug the honesty and carefully added, "It's hard to describe the amounts of assholes coming up to me Asking about who I am, what I like, and all that creepy stalk-like weird fixation they have with my breasts."
 "Yeah," I thought, "What weird male wouldn't daydream of laying by your side in a candle-lit room, watching your chest heave and exhale so preciously like the precious, most gentle spirit you are?" before saying, "That's what I like about people who don't know how to talk to other people," she stood silent and smirked as I continued, "it's sad to see - yet it makes you wonder how they think inside their minds, you know?"
 She nodded in agreement and questioned about how I dealt with myself, especially when handing her the dear honest letter I've been most sincere and thoughtful, expressing near-frightening honesty and fears - with anyone or myself that I hadn't cared to admit before.
 "I think of myself as a star hidden by the moon, a beautiful disaster. I deal with myself by living through ink and secretly despising it at times. A sincere relfection of what surrounds me, and a reflection of what I think I should be. Denying my freedom and whom I want to be.."
 "Lest be known," she gathered, "for the true times of truth are shown! What else is of you for growth?"
 Curious, I played with the idea of being a fallen angel whom reaches out to others while keeping myself in darkness and fields of pain and deep fear abounding.
 "I don't think you're an emo boy," she said smiling that deep-kindest smile, instantly melting my heart and growing my love for her as they shone through my eyes. She must've grown warily and creeped, for she looked away suddenly and charged up the cost of Le Samuel Adams.
 "Am I that desperate?" I thought to myself, running the question through and through. Public affection in the blink of an eye and a twitter of the eyelash.
 "That'll be fifteen dollars and thirty-two cents, sir" and I handed her a Canadian twenty-dollar bill, opening my palm for the change as she delicately placed her palm in mine and closed the forefingers, before looking me in the eye for a moment, saying her shift ends in an hour that is if I'd like to get to know her.
 A mature man would remain cool.
 I am not always a mature man.
 WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

 Walking away from the woman behind the counter was difficult and not looking back was surely a test, a test soon to be completed, graded, and we shall find the results and if passing was such a wise choice. Outside of the store in the parkling lot with the morning sun of ten o' clock and the air was refreshed, cleansed, and purified by the frozen sun shining lowly ahead - beaming its grin, warmth, and encouragement to do everything, anything at once just as you madly love it; searching for something on the ride to the highest dreams and aspirations blowing your name from the far distance in the wind. As it rushed past my hair, the cool-flowing breeze of the wind brought memories of childhood, the innocent times, the freedom times, the times of standing on the edge of a cliff with your arms extended as far as you could reach, leaning forward, being kept back straight in position from the high-powered refreshing; living, breathing wind shriveling through your clothes, stinging your eyes as they tear and all you can do is smile- smile- smile, for this child is a bird, flying wild and screaming to the clouds below.

 Taking an enduring, long, hard ride to a good pal's home on the other end of town,  living in a broken-down house that's oddly lived some fifty odd years and the only  thing keeping it together was the tender loving care of the sincerest man inside  Jamon Mad: a sensitive soul caught up in all the driving madness that keeps him  going, going, going on the road, living for day to day amongst the troubles everyone  anywhere brings him in to. My relationship with the man older than me - by atleast  ten years - has been one of the on and off stages as he tends to his own needs and I  to mine.
 The last time we had a conversation was about two years ago - we were sitting in the  local poetry cafe across the street from a library and I was drinking Lovely Lemon  (brand) tea, reading On The Road by Jack Kerouac, he had walked in just like Dean  Moriarty knocked on Sal's door of his aunt's house. Jamon had just walked through the  doors and he wandered right to my table,
 "I'm B-A-A-A-A-A-K-K-Z-Z!" and stole a chug from the tea I was having without  asking.
 "What's the haps in mad, crazy-creative Kurt Land?" he asked with excitement and  impatience. This man defined caffiene-addict without the caffiene and without the  addict; just pure adrenaline unless you got him into a mood he severely dug with a  passion, "the USA is pretty decadent and idol worshiping fools as usual."
 He passed the tea-cup my way and I took a sip, not wanting to get into the  Government or politics. Those two topics don't deserve the recognition and are not  worth mentioning or wasting time thinking about.
 "Come now, gentle Kurt!" he squired with glee across with a bellowing laughter and  infatuation. "What's the moment of events in this here world, this life, man, says  you? The world is your canvas, now what are you doing as the artist?"
 At the time we conversed, I was working on a poetry book about the life spent in  several cities, falling in and out of love with several women within the year, always  on the search for the one, my soul mate, my other half. Most times I'd fallen so in  love with the women, I contemplated suicide several dozen times within that year.
 "Yes, see man, that's I'm on about! I used to be wandering off from time to time  from state to state, women to women, then on my return to them I'm suddenly goiing  'What's going on' and the women, see, the women, they're like 'Wha? Wha? Nothing!'  and punch me in the face or cry at me, or something. Then, see, 'cause I'm still  confused within the doubts of my own mind that I'm not able to drink onto paper, I'm  saying, 'Don't cry, I'm here now,' and the next week I'm off again! It's a vicious  cycle."
 Listening to what he said done nothing at the time other than make me stare at my  shaggard of tea and wonder what the next song was going to be. I'm never in the mood  for the deepest secret fears to be exposed and how genuinely alone my heart is, being  that I is the Libra of the Zodiac, when I asked what else he'd been doing in the two  years since.
 "I wrote a play about a delusional grave digger and a crow. 've been reading a bunch  of screenplays in one of my creative writing courses here in town. The play I wrote  was received well by the females, maybe because it was over exagerrated by my emotion  since it was a true story."
 "How do you tap into your emotions so well while pushing the doubt, fear, and the  overall feeling of sadness for feeling that emotion in the first place?" I battled  with expressing my emotions, my true-deep earnest emotions of my pained heart. What's  just below the surface, waiting to succeed..
 "I don't know, the last poem I wrote was about not liking the fact I share things in  my life. I have nobody to tell the stories to but the shadows, yes! People don't want  to hear about how luck you are in bed. Jealousy, man, jealousy needs not in this  world for it is nothing but a dick-raiser and ego boost."
 "Shit! Giddup on the stage! There's the mic, there's good artists 'round here. Read  your words, man."
 Without second thought, Mad Jamon Mad Jamon jumped up on stage and asked for the mic  to be turned on, and he took a crumpled sheet of paper out of his back-pocket,  cleared his throat, and asked for the lights to be dimmed as he sat down on a wooden  stool, staring at the piece of paper; seemingly confused, nervous, and doubtful.
 Man. Damn them doubt demons!
 
"Wade my way through a forest at night, no problem. Wade my way through a gang fight,  I’m fearless. I was known as Jamon the Bastard. My friends would tell you I’m  unbreakable, and they’re right. You can’t break what has already been broken, and I  am. Broken not by the might of some random brawler, but by the beauty to my beast.  Broken by a girl named Juliette. This is my road to ruin."
 The crowd stood silent with the chinging-changing of the cashbox ceased, the  cigarette smokers not puffing, and the clitter-le-clatter of the drinks shuffling  from table to table stopped, from customers and service people alike. Even I stood in  silence with eyes closed, imagining the world of love and pain by this man, this  cold, lone man was living in with a veil of a beautoiful woman bringing a new stage  in his life; possible new feelings never thought before:
 "It’s winter now cold, lonely, and long. Then one day there was Juliette, even  shinier then ever. She invites me and a friend of mine to go with her to a mall and  catch up on things. Once there my friend went off on his own agenda. Juliette and I  were quickly bored so we went and found a place to sit. We found a place on a stage  in an open court. We were sitting Indian style facing each other. She was telling me  about how frustrated she was with life and love, I just listened. I can see it in her  eyes, on her lips, and by her very presence; They call it “love buzz.” I see forever  in Juliette’s eyes and I break! I don’t remember what happened next, but I kept  telling myself she is my friend’s sister. I don’t remember her leaving, but I should  have never let her go."
 And that new feeling is lost.
"H.P. Lovecraft wrote, 'Fear is caused by the suspension or defeat of those fixed law  of nature which are our only safeguards against the assaults of chaos.'
  The rule of nature I lived by was 'nothing breaks Jamon the Bastard.' I could tell  myself that I did the right thing by not loving my friend’s sister, but I find no  solace in that. Happiness wasn’t part of my nature..and when she gave it to me..I  broke.. An opportunity in the winter night gone forever."

 What happened in that cafe was never forgotten, the day that seemed to be yesterday  forever a constant dream in the mind of a fellow Lonesman wandering, wandering,  hopelessly falling in love and holding onto one strand of happiness with the full  knowledge that love is just waiting to be hurt, intentionally or unintentionally. The  words he spoke with such distain, almost-pained and a cold detachment from the  feeling felt when he wrote it, the words he spoke so dearly, tenderly, always painted  a picture in my mind and from that day to never day I atleast repeated one line from  each of his words; quotes, quotes, quotes, other mind's becoming one in  understanding.
 
 It was a long time after that cafe recital that Mad and I hadn't spoken since, off  in our own worlds, anti-anything, pro-everything, climatically getting our fix of  literature, sex, booze and cigarettes in a day to day world where every word, every  action, thought, re-action, cause, and moment of event means what exactly it is to  you. What it was to Mad I tried to figure out and let loose; chips fall where they  may. Is what is.

 During the long-memory, I had stopped at the left side of the road and had a series  of cars honking at me, blaring their headlights at me, off to the noon lunchbreak.  LITTLE SLAVES DRIVING, DRIVING THROUGH THE CITY TO GET THEIR FIX BEFORE THEIR MASTER  CALLS THEM IN FOR A QUICK BUCK TO FEED THE OTHER SLAVES...Driving back onto the road,  toward Mad Jamon's house and reuniting old frequencies with a dear-young friend kept  out of touch until the very moment things were supposed to happen, and the  subconscious was brought into play. Things felt right at that noon hour, that lovely  dear-Buddha at-noon hour with the frozen sun up ahead, as I sped and sped clearly  with a mad desire to meet the old mad man once again. Mad Jamon, the cross-country  road freak, mad with anger for the civil, mad with anticipation for the new. Always  on the go and go for the road, picking up every gorgeous woman that just so happens  to cross his ever roving, wandrous, lustful eye. Jamon's a ladies man and a man's man  with the men, without the egotistical dick-raising boast of which car is faster, who  can beat up who, but a quick-witted  soul in search of something more than what he'd  already studied of Taoism, Christianity and religion, and all the madness of this  damned world and that of the world inside his head trying to be explained through  liquor, writing, and driving a lone drivesman across the states.

 Living on the border of CanAmericanada meant the only way to get to the nearest city about twenty minutes on the outskirts of our country, I'd prefer living in the outbacks. In the outbacks you do not have to drive. You wouldn't kill mother nature. I decided to kill mother nature for atleast twenty minutes on the ride to Mad Jamon's house, the long friend since newly forgotten and an 'oh what the hell' attitude was the creptiest hefty-tide feeling that felt right at the moment, stages and stages, acts through acts and how is everybody doing at the current stage in their life? I wondered about humanity as I watched endless sets of windshields upon windshields pass my left on the opposite of the road. Making goofy faces and flip of the bird's to cure the boredom, man, ride and ride.
 

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