New Haven is quite provincial, echoes of memories haunt their every move. Truth in guilt rebounds. A fool will never learn that one slightly tinted candle flickering in a dim room does not constitute romance. What does a writer do when he writes? Does he place half-empty words and phrases on a blank sheet thus making a collage on a printer's palate? Fools find that they can not openly convey their spirit unless they imbibe. through the spirit's intoxication there is found inhibitions downcast, vocabulary rushing, defenses cut. Poe remained ever intoxicated. In weakness is found the lifeblood of artistry. Why do people flock around him to inquire of his remarkable gifts? They stare too at the paralytic. Artists are such unfortunates. Totally disfigured without a shred to themselves. They sit. They think. They sculpt. They paint. Unknowing in their adventures, all knowing in their weaknesses. Yet, modern man perceives them as only the dreamers, the no-goods, the outcasts - but in the hearts of men they are carried. We touch their knowing.
We become their feelings - wrought by our perceptions - as a torch. Yet to them we have become empty vessels of nothingness. They find their companionship within themselves, their spirits, their derivatives, for the intoxication of metamorphic spiritual harmony. They preach mighty sermons - the master orators of patriotic lectures - man's innate involvement with a vague truth that they feel and we abscond with. Where truly is that fine lady, blindly attempting to balance the scales of sacredness? Conquests of the mind are eloquent sonnets, sung to prophets uneasy in their graves. They travel the byways and skyways to rest in the celestial breast of helpfulness. There is a key in charity, an embryo broken from its resting-place. Violations abound. Cries for salvation can be heard as pitiful screams in an echoing canyon. An artist's conception is mediocre at best, staying no bars of humanity. Love them tonight. Rhyme and reason are antiquities of youth. Truth takes our warm baths from us. Winter's breath bites bidding not to come near. Through close-mindedness, go on you way eternal.
Travel near and far and never reach your destination. Search forever and never realize your truth. Pay whatever the price, and lose on every turn. Be despondent and stay shackled to indifference. You still must travel it's cobblestones-the trip that always begins, but never, ever ends.
Copyright PsychopeteÓ 2003
