Jet Blk

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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 United States License. james walsh

August in the morning

I remember the first time i knew i could love you,

It was a hazy August morning,

you appeared between the rows of people,

Walking down the avenue.

Your hair was tied back,

Still wet from the shower, 

Golden was the skin that stretched out over you,

Contrasted with the simple white shirt,

I watched it cascade down your chest and arms.

It was a smile,

a singular look,

dragged me in.

How you looked at the world,

filled with the glory of innocence,

the promise of love and life to come.

When we made it close enough,

When your hand reached out for mine,

I knew it was you,

would always be,

the one I could love.


An Open Letter

To Whom It May Concern:

            For the past several months I have been unbearably melancholy and pessimistic.  As you can imagine this has led to a great deal of stress upon my friends and loved ones.  Also as you may have guessed I have been inundated by advice and questions so clichéd it could make even the most ignorant sick with apathy.  Everything from, “Things could be worse,” and, “Look on the bright side,” to the, “Look for new opportunities,” and “Is there something you’re not telling me.”  However among this bevy of hackneyed sayings two things distinctly stood out to me.

            The first came from my mother amid a heated discussion upon arrival home from what was an especially trying day at work, to say the least.  I called my mother to finish a conversation we had begun earlier that day.  At first listen she could hear the heaviness in my voice and thus began prodding.  Me in a bearish mood was quick to strike back in defense of my mood.  After our emotional exchange she finally caught my ear with seven simple words, “Well what do you want from life?”  The conversation soon fizzled out briefly after, however that question remained in my head for sometime after.  What do I want, from people, from life?  I want to meet people that aren’t comfortable with the grimace of mediocrity.  Who do not see things as just fine, simply retracing the patterns of ancestors with different lines.  People who listen, not just going off on self-important diatribes.  Bring me the ones who still dream, with ideas that shake us loose from societies shackles.  I want to break free of anonymity, create something immortal.

            The second of these comments that I reflected on was a statement in which someone explained that maybe I do not know how to be happy.  It’s something that stood out to me.  Do any of us know how to be happy?  How are we supposed to learn, from parent, from peers?  Is it attainable today?  Now a days we are constantly pumped full of bullshit from the media and internet.  An unending flow of sewage running free from computers and people.  All of them reimaging the same meaningless words we have heard all our lives.  So I ask all of you ignorantly blissful people the same question you ask me, what is the matter with you?  How can you sit there so apathetic, so blind to the sheer awfulness of everything going on around us.  So if you see this and agree please find me, it’s so hard feeling like the last sane person on this planet. 


                        James Walsh

"Please stop talking," she began, "you promised you wouldn’t make me sad anymore.  Now shut up and fuck me like you used to."

You sat along the fire
You sold a life
You stole the light
You suffer with no one

Violet night
Summer Flowers

Grande Semana

I arrived in Donostia on Thursday evening on the first weekend of August.  The summer rains had recently given way to fresh sunlight as the city bustled with life.  Tourists burst forth onto the narrow ally’s lined with shops and bars, hoping to catch rays of light breaking past buildings.  Only one more day separated residents and transplants from the cannon launch, signifying the start of Grande Semana.  Sitting alone in Konstituzio Plaza I spent the early part of the night alternating between wine and cigarettes as the marching band rehearsed for tomorrow.

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Excerpt from the new novel I’m working on