Ars Poetica

To lay in the dark,

without purpose or


is to seal one’s own will

and to welcome decay.

The burning sensation

of boredom, which

squirms and burrows

in one’s skull is the precursor

to madness.

Yet, if one stops for a moment,

he can see his

slim and pasty fingers

flick and jitter and

ache and crave

the passage of thought.

The Train

I’d like to get off now… off of this train. So bold is it to hold my head against its glass and taunt me with nature’s magnificence, and expect me to stay aboard. Yes, I’d like to step off into the bright red sun, into a river or a forest perhaps. I could wander and wander and wander until I was lost. It’s been so long since I’ve removed myself from beneath these abrasive anxieties and lived without so much worry. The docks above Maryland’s glistening rivers might be a good place for that. Not often have these picturesque landscapes been disrupted by the invasive nature of man’s machinery, and that is good. Yet, I have quickly fallen in love with the quiet nature of the small towns between these mighty mountains; the ancient hills upon which masterfully carved churches sit seem to call out, telling me to climb, to observe not their reason, but their way. There are no cars on the roads, and there isn’t one other soul on this quiet, quiet train. I hope one day to walk those sidewalks from the small towns’ ends, maybe seeing a passerby, perhaps two, to whom I would smile and wave, as a sign of mutual understanding in that liberating solitude. Maybe then would I be free of these worries. I worry for myself, yet not as much as I long for those too far from me now. I miss my mother, my father, my dear brother, and I miss my love. Somehow, I feel I might find her in the forest, or in the river, or on the top of some ancient hill in small-town America. I can’t escape my hatred for these longings, though I’ve locked myself away inside a dormitory, attending to the teachings of things that do not interest me. Such teachings amplify my worries. So I would like to get off now, and walk into the forest, if only to forget for a moment or so. I’d like to swim in a river, or walk some lonesome wrinkled street.

This century is not a time for a man like myself.

I could hunt and fish and build myself a home from strong thick trees, none weak, as that is where my current abode sits. But I do not want the life of a wildman; I only want peace. Send me into the forest, and I’ll find it.

So once more, I’d like to get off now, and I would, but there’s no conductor on this train.