My explanation to this point...

I'm so happy about the new literary journal Eduardo Jones, Jesse Mitchell,Sham, Andreas,HST books,just all these dudes ive met in the past four months thanks to "Finding the Beat..." the little documentry if you know me I've spoken ad-naseum about since the first day I found out. Every day they get great new writers,like a personal friend of a friend Leah Bodenhammers work,or Ben Simon, or Bryce. Trina and Jinx have really started somthing special that is so young and so promising. This is special especially in a time like this in World History. An economic depression,such tension from all sides in a time of a technological rennissance. It makes me feel like at some point,if somthings not done,we will have lost sight of the enjoyment of life,of each other. Its simply easier to coexsist ,but that is the flaw...haha that lame,lame flaw...

I was born during a flash flood in the muggy Texas summer. Born to two Methodist ministers and torn threw the machinery of salvation, I feel repulsed to know its just another business all about its weight in gold. I see time hasn’t changed in these edited history books. People remain the same; the hierarchy is a dark dynasty, then the sheep follow the Judas goat, while normal people know about the finales’ of television shows .I haven’t felt more on edge since I was seven and beating my cousin with a baseball bat on my birthday in a backyard. I can’t explain who I’ am because of this cesspool I swim in, I’m just not as aware as I should have been. If I were to say that I slept in a mansion on a furry rug would that make me distasteful; or if I slept on my friends couch scraping quarters out of the cushions, would that mean I’m a waste of time and space? I’m not the voice of the doomed, or the common obscure. I am the poster boy for a reeling generation; one of dormant aptitude and hasty immoral decisions. I barely trust my eyes and remain constantly vigilant, open to the road and in search of visions or hope, which ever comes most. I’ve made love to the most beautiful women, and bloodied an enemy’s nose all while medicated on high doses of...Whatever was cheap or free at the moment… I’ve spent days in jail, listening to the trains yells wondering the next time ill be free to write or smoke. I’m not as important as I once perceived myself to be; therefore I vomit the beast out of me as consistently and cohesively as my grammar allows it to seem. I am not the thief I once was, stealing the brains of young children and over priced clothes. I’ am a cold heartless man with motor oil coursing threw my bones… I’m sick of EM! All of EM! High horsed coattail riders with neither the scrodem nor skills to envision such a revolution; the sad trend of being someone who’s previously lived threw imitation. Were regressing, as a society, BREATH LITERATURE & ART, and question authority. Libraries will burn if we fall further unaware.