by practicalspactical

I tramp a perpetual journey.

I have my guitar, and the clothes on my back, and the memories of things I’ve done, books I’ve read, and people I’ve met.

Time has shaped me like Michaelangelo, weathering my marble to expose the inner David. In the rooms the women come and go … Eliot by way of Pound.

Romanticism. Lost loves. Secrets never to be told. Sad secrets. Heavy burdens. Light burdens.

The Late Great Planet Earth. God’s Last Continent.

My mind is a labyrinth. What beast lurks at the center? What hero navigates its turns, with only a trail of bread crumbs to see him home? And where is the Cunning Artificer who shaped its ways?


Not I. Call me Isaiah. Other Name, twisted. A pen name. A twixt a turn. Sun Day. All hail the rising. And yet it rises.

Curious faith of inductive reasoning, and the lacuna of skepticism at its heart. And yet it rises.

Intuition. A sense of where you are. Feeling. This time with feeling. I am not that accurate, but I play with great enthusiasm.