excerpts from the memoirs of W.P. Scranton...

It is for posterity (and posterity only) that I take up my pen again. I will leave, for the generations, a small seed of myself. Yes, I am thinking (and I am lucid) only of the masses of men--that great, ever-living, breathing body of memory--in which I seek to plant a particle of my soul; not only that I may live eternally, but that Truth itself may stand up and say, "Truth!".

This is the aim, or goal, of my humble, yet unceasingly troubled, heart. I say troubled, not as the seas are troubled, for they churn greatly but unknowingly; but as Poseidon himself--a god (and his waters serve only as a mirror reflecting the disposition of his great soul)--is troubled over the matters concerning his watery dominion. Long live Poseidon! (and--though I am only saying this for your benefit, not mine--this is a metaphor for greatness and not the mythical Poseidon who ruled the seas and, by default, those who dared to traverse his domain.)

I will begin with Love. And where else should I begin but with the very thought whereupon hinges the hopes and dreams of every heart--the sustenance of the soul, the fuel of passion, the wings of desire! Love. Where was it said that, "All lives for Love."? (If it wasn't said, well, then it should have been, and in fact, has now). Ha ha! Who has given for Love and not lost all? Who has seen It and has not felt this sentiment, clouding all judgment, yet preserving innocence? Who has tasted from the Golden Cup and, though satisfied, thirsts evermore, even to madness?

I have tasted. I declare to all! Without shame, I declare to all who may comprehend: I Have Tasted! (Am I that mad that that madness should be mine?) See! And with this, as some of you know, the pen fails to make the true impression--only the Soul knows (and its prophets) of what I, and that rather deplorably, attempt to write...

written in the late 1800s:

"For how can a man shake off his habits, what can become of him if he is in such bondage to the habit of satisfying the innumerable desires he has created for himself? He is isolated, and what concern has he with the rest of humanity? They have succeeded in accumulating a greater mass of objects, but the joy in the world has grown less. " - Tolstoy

I was young once, and bitter...

who do you think you are orange moon?
it's not enough the tides dance for you?
and scarecrow's shadow's still true to form--fills
pilgrims' horn--
many Thanks consumed!
while i waited for the leaves of Autumn
you pilfered her heart like pirates' boon.

what are you staring at cruel moon?
haven't you anything better to do?
shining knight half-crazed on poets' praise--bright
light upraised
like a peacock plumed;
while she floated down ten leagues to bottom
you severed her smile from my heart's tune.

The Fly in Herb's Honey

Would I be too brash,
Herb, to examine the expanse
just between the ears-
and determine the degree
of any man’s years-
of rationalized resistance
to take out the trash?