Author: Andrew Thomas

Sleep too deep to recognize, close your eyes and try to follow the friendly vices of tomorrow’s martyrs. Within eyes too deep to be forgotten the subtle grayness of boredom. Childhood dreams, synthetic screams hidden memories wishing you well.

once in a while and then the ice would rupture. But someone if they wanted to could capture the radiant pleasures of Spring, isolate them with insignificance and surround them with the solitude of winter. To keep smiling you could, capture your dreams in bottles and picture yourself inside them. And live telepathic until summer.

Don’t you want to be what I can see? Paint on another coat of valor. Or are you only over too often, never to be forgotten? Can you hear this voice tortured into these words? I have forgotten winter’s whisper, November’s trees.

Then he wasn’t. That is to say he was like the wind, and his breaths were counted in days. And at night in evening’s long shadows he still remains. Where have you gone when the wind stands still? What is there that fades away. Come to me in the night. Dance as a shadow in…

Salt and Sunshine. Our voices go unheard beneath our own whispers. The world Precious. In a joke that my father told me… Sherlock and Watson go camping. They set up tent, ok. Sherlock and Watson, these two, go to bed and later in the evening they wake up and Sherlock here wakes up and says…

At around five I met Lenny Bruce at a club. I was born on April 30, 1961. On the cusp of the Bay of Pigs, Mao Bay. I wanted to share this with you. I was with a family friend. And Lenny told me this joke… hey kid, I am the funniest comedian in history.…

I saw tomorrow in my eyeswhen I was just in sixth grade—and tomorrow was enough.You did the right thing.Are you still there,where you always were?Tomorrow is here,possibly without you.And I have become tomorrow.

reflected in the glass like a slow confession. I sat just under the light. I was on my way to Santa Monica tomorrowto sit in on a meeting. I remembered meeting Ericbefore an Asia concert—or was it Rainbow. He was making a ticket for the concertout of cardboard paper. I wasn’t an alcoholic, just yet.…

I was, she said as she came around the corner of the house. I was about to tell you, she continued, as the sun shone in the front picture windows of the home. Mom won’t be home until August. The lights across the street reflected green yellow and red in the picture window. I said…

I believe the mountains praise the ocean. And that the Ocean praises the Sea. I believe that the Soul dreams, and that the Evening cries for more days in the arms of someone you can find to love. And without the someone. I wouldn’t know. And I believe the Oceans praise the Mountains created so…

Steel rails along the concrete and glass.The green leaves from the branches rise.I was by the side of a brook oncesays the old man. In Michigan.The man sat alone and switched to French….Il y a donc là quelque chose qu’on peutbien entendre, grâce à ce qui m’a fait attendre, eh bien…The wind was a little…