A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game

|Front Cover|Introduction|I|II|Interlude|III|IV|Conclusion|
|Psychephrenia|I|Interlude|II|Back Cover|


Conclusion

The Real Me

Conclusion? What conclusion could I have possibly drawn from this, other than the fact that, as an artist, I have successfully evolved past my past heights? No, I have no conclusions for you, book. The hypothetical reader though, the hypothetical reader is more than welcome to draw some conclusions. That’s what art is all about: the beholder getting something out of it. Humans create for other humans to enjoy, and all creativity is art. Hell, physical activity can even be art, human beings are art projects in the flesh. Life itself is an artform, and as for where life is lived… if you don’t consider the Universe to be the greatest piece of artwork that was ever created, well… fuck man, do you really have any business living inside of Her?

If you weren’t insulted by that, or by the poetry in general, I genuinely do hope you enjoyed what you’ve read here. I also hope that you see me, the real me, for who I am; one without a parallel. There’s not much more for me to say here; please, turn the page and read a small blurb about the art on the back cover, taken by the one and only Michael Storm Fisher, another man lacking in parallelity. Ride in peace Mike, your memory lives on forever.


A Note About The Back Cover

Another Mike Ride by Michael Storm Fisher

This photograph, originally titled Another Mike Ride, was taken by Michael Storm Fisher in 2009, ten full years prior to my assembling of this anthology. We see two mirrored shots of a landscape, one side with a biker and the other barren. Mike was a special dude – artistic, athletic, always one to go against the grain – he had a very unique mind in a time when so many of us were breaking our butts just trying to fit in with everyone else. He tragically passed away in 2012 following a freak lightning strike accident at the park he worked at.

I like call this photo My Parallel in my own head. I admittedly didn’t know him well when he was alive, but after visiting his brother Zak, a good friend of mine, and spending a lot of time talking about the kind of human he was, I got the impression that Mike didn’t have a parallel in life, just like the biker in the photograph. He was his own man, lived by his own set of rules, and that energy radiates from this photo.


About The Author

The author… fuck it, I’m just going to say it. It’s happening. I’m finally admitting this to myself and to you, the reader. It’s time… the author of these poems and thoughts? HOW?

The author is god.

Now bask in my light!


Psychephrenia