…if you are bothered by the idea of this being real, you are invited to do what the author should have done, and what authors and readers have been doing since the beginning of time:


~  A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, [Acknowledgments section], by Dave Eggers

“It has always seemed strange to me…The things we admire in men, kindness and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling, are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness, greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest, are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second.”

~ John Steinbeck




A March snow
Has fallen
Small children
Create angels
On earth
They smile.

Some People


Some people.


Some people, will lie

Some people, will cheat.


Play dead

Play the martyr

Destroy all others


Regardless…of the outcome.


Never taking the blame

Never taking the fall,

And never feeling the pain


Of all others.


And someone once told me;


“That honest people don’t exist anymore in the 21st century”


And someone once told me;


“That love…is dead”


And perhaps, they were right.


But I am not a romantic

I am a romantic

I am the last rational man


With a soul.


I am the last human being left who still believes


In “The Way”


I have done the unavoidable.

I have done the unreliable.

And I have been the unwanted… as well.


“The Dead”


“The Living”


“The Risen”


So call me… what you will.

Do your best, or do… your worst.


But either way, know this;


That you can never win

A battle against a man

Who’s already gone head to head

With the universe


And “Lost”



R.M. Engelhardt

The Hollow Men : T.S. Elliot

The Hollow Men



We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.


Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.


The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.


Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
                                Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
The Hollow Men | 1925
Happy Birthday To T.S. Elliot







So when the day finally comes

I will probably have already

Checked out of the room,

Tired, so tired after years of words

And poems and voices and far too

Old to care anymore

About the nightly news.

And yet?

From somewhere six

Feet underground I will still be able to

Hear the wind, and like a flower

My body or what’s

Left of it will briefly rise and stir

As if in interest of even more of history’s

Passing events, and I, being merely a corpse

Will concede to write in the remaining fragments of

My mind and soul

A poem, and this poem

Will be my best poem

Heard by no one but my friends

Like Mrs. Applebee, who is in the lot

Next to me, who in life hated poetry

And who died at 83, or by the young

And newly dead Mr. Hastings who

Was is in love with Penelope and who was

In love with catastrophe and who dared

The poor young Mr. Hastings to

Have some quick sex sitting upon

Her balcony just outside

Her window ledge


So Yes

Sorry, I’m still here

Ever so briefly.

As it seems that

Life is always presenting us

With it’s own stories

Of death and romance

Honor and bravery

And love and war

And in this epic poem from

The great beyond I shall go on

To tell all of you, dear humanity about

How cold the earth can be and

How comic and how tragic it all is in the end

To finally realize what all the final answers

Are to the universe and what all the how’s & all

The why’s and etc.(s) mean and to be able to

Tell no one.


So OK,

Doug was right

(The Answer? It’s 42)

But please wait, please listen

For I am now merely a voice

Upon the wind and

I’m forgetting something important

As my dead memory is

Fading, the poem in my head,

My soul slowly decomposing

And the world, planet earth

Is finally ending and turning into

Just fire and ashes from above

So I’ll recite it

As quickly as I can

Here’s the poem

The last poem

And it goes something

Like this :

So here’s the poem

The last poem

And it goes something

Like this

So here’s the poem

The last poem

And it goes something

Like this

So here’s the poem

The last poem

And it goes something

Like this


Like this






Like this






Like … This:





It’s … This.



Don’t worry.

Stop worrying

And live

Because everything

Is beautiful

And the poem

The story,


Everything is beautiful

And the poem,

The story repeats

Everything is beautiful

Everything is beautiful

Every … Thing    is,

Every … Thing  is   is   is   is









“Sometimes it’s great, and sometimes it’s shit.

These are the things all the great philosophers

just won’t tell you flat out about life.

You keep moving, keep living, keep breathing

And you keep writing-creating because that’s what you do

And that’s who you are. There are no magical voices to guide

You except your own. Make it count.






The sun is a huntress young,
The sun is a red, red joy,
The sun is an indian girl,
Of the tribe of the Illinois.


The sun is a smouldering fire,
That creeps through the high gray plain,
And leaves not a bush of cloud
To blossom with flowers of rain.


The sun is a wounded deer,
That treads pale grass in the skies,
Shaking his golden horns,
Flashing his baleful eyes.


The sun is an eagle old,
There in the windless west.
Atop of the spirit-cliffs
He builds him a crimson nest.

Vachel Lindsay, An Indian Summer Day On The Prairie.