It's not art, just words. I swear.

It's Not Art, Just Words. I Swear.

I want to write words that make people assume, think, react. I want to be able to fill up pages with sexual innuendos and gripping nonsense. You know what I do? I connect. I get people off. I look for the guys and girls who aren't getting off, and I make them get off. I want to earn an honest living with weapons of mass destruction charged with love. I want my words to be misunderstood for what they are actually worth; art.

Write letters and notes in preparation. To have my readers turn into a stampede of raging elephants battling vicariously.

To stand on soap boxes in a world with no sound. It's all as simple as I make it. Slander and slaughter. It'll be over soon enough. Climaxes of speeches and electioneering collapse as lead hits bark. I want to shout volumes about the branches that looked like paint, they ran and stood on, or in, or outside, the lines, to spark thoughts about the trees in the foreground and the gestures of trees in the background. To have people listen about how the first cigarette of my day, makes me a feel a pulse for the first time in what felt like days. To have people listen to me describe how something subtle creeped down my spine, something from somewhere between the tall concrete I walked between. Or something from the dimly lit apartment that stole so many of my words.


Fuck it...


Without definition, or restriction, my teeth most assuredly were doing me a favor. Every word they were able to stop from chipping out into the open air was full of disgrace, dishonor, and invariably, quite anti-climactic. I figure silence and cryptic movements are my safest bet. Almost unconsciously I will put the cigarette out beneath my feet, and think, "I'll just never understand." I'll find comfort in solemnity.

FIN.