My worst person in the world, and first mate.

Justus is my younger brother by four years. I do not like him. He does not like me. He and I write poems about the sea. His are the worst in the world. Mine are fine pieces of literature. Here is one he just wrote the other day; he was very proud of it.

A picture of the moon,
a daffodil in bloom,
a synthesizer plays,
my mind is in a haze.

Though not on drugs,
my mind, is filled with bugs.

I like to believe that you stare into what I receive.

Go away Bob Dylan!
Go away politics!
We need no hypocrites!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now that we've suffered long, I believe it is high time we take a bask in the delightful wording of one of my own compositions.

I'm sitting writing on my knees,
hungry beer drinking, thinking of cheese.
The music is in my left ear,
and the cold is still batting in from the rear.

The music says, "bend every piece,"
And that makes me think of my neice.


So, I'm trying to change in a few small ways,
-eat more, don't smoke, and walk every day
But the clouds are all dusty, so I'm going away.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Perhaps one day, when we get off this boat I believe we could be good friends. For now, however, I must go to fetch the boy from his bunk  that he might break the ice off the sails.