There was a young man who wanted to be a writer, a poet and was also misguided in so many ways. He grew up to be an old man wanting to be a writer, poet but was also misguided in many ways. 20 years ago I hand wrote a “book” and gave it to a girl who was literary informed, a year or two later she sent it back with a note about how she was moving and thought this might be important to me, she was right. I wanted to be Bukowski before I knew who he was. I write and not just for fun, writing helps my thought process and sometimes there’s shit in my head I just need to get out, so I write it on the first thing available to me. In my garage sits a box from when I was a younger man, a box filled with notes written on various things like receipts and napkins, I write because I don’t know what else to do. I was also artistic as a young man but that went away when I let the bully decide what I was going to do but you could never take my writing away, even when I would share my poems and get made fun of for questioning sexuality, the thoughts never stopped nor did the writing. The present words are written by a drunken euphoric adult, the handwritten ones are by an optimistic me looking forward to something else but it all ain’t bad.
That’s it for the “book” and now I would like to share some beautiful art sent to me from Ms. Georgia Toons