I am tired of constructing clay.
The sand in my fingernails makes me cringe
that this life has offered up nothing more
then the false display of a wax work museum.

The end is always near and I walk to the edge
on a daily basis to observe the fascade of neon lights
which overhangs this self created electric light parade.

I am part of the whole.
I am a dissident in the eyes of the creator.

But the creator gave us all a piece of himself,
like a mother gives her child, like it or not
we create these clouds in our eyes.

Awake to the foggy muse each morning
whole heartedly awaiting the rise or the fall
--of something...
but nothing happens.

We are left to seek inspiration in a monotone existence.

Another news flash brings us a sense of emotion,
all the while ignoring the changing skies
or even worse, turning simplistic beauty in to mundane drama.

I have a home in the southland.
I graze the interstate like a cow astray from its herd.

What will I find today---another [paragraph]
to enter into another journal.

What does it all mean?

I have a shadow that follows me everywhere,
sometimes I want to kill him.
Shine a flashlight at him and make him disappear.
It's like a sick joke perpetuated by every mirror
we hang on our walls to remind us
we cannot succeed ourselves.

Why must I be shackled into matter?
I want to unchain these limbs from the membrane
that so weakly restricts our ability to fly.

As you read this I hope you feel as though
you have stumbled upon a simple man's meaningless
ramblings about life- or something like it.

This is life-or something like it.

A meaningless rambling. An inadequate stream of conciousness, that unless tamed by words,
continued to haunt us in the prison of our head.

We are greater then the world.
The world is greater then us all.
There is something more then us or the world.
It makes no difference to be different
or the same,
in life, or something like it.

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