Kyle Kerezsi

I dig writing.

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Journal [Spring 2013]

I've been drifting through a calloused mind. Infallible to . . . There's a wicked stitch inside my art. And the art of tongue is not to say a thing. All the art wants is the math to pull its skin, then you see what I sought, and it will feel your arms.

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Society's in a constant state of a guy telling his neighbor to turn down the radio causing the neighbor to lower the volume then raise it back when the guy stops noticing.

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A festival chattered and swelled across the street from the walking man. The music from the band overpowered the other festival noises with horns, guitars, percussion and tenor vocals. The man approached the end of the block when he heard an amateur preacher shout words about the prophet Muhammad and Jesus Christ. On the block ahead of the walking man, he saw a sitting man with a cardboard sign that read in black ink, “Please Help. Have Baby. Need Motel.” The festival and the preacher were audible where the walking man passed the sitting man.

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Journal Excerpt [sometime between (4-23-13) & (5-18-13)]

She's a slave to her heart and her heart is a slave, bound by substance and  the comfort of submission. Time siphons pleasure in the  heated gravity of sorrow while the race to nowhere gathers speed. As union with the universe,  souls never perish and the most desolate, even the most malignant of barriers are bound to break.

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Journal Excerpt ([5/19]/13)

Trudge through the dense tunnel of woe or some shit. There's [a] house past the road and next to the factory. It's like the goddamn opposite of fire.

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Review: Bad Kids Go To Hell

Here's an old review I wrote for Bad Kids Go To Hell.

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Journal Excerpt (9/25/12):

When I'm there, I can always hear it, the city.

Its true persona is revealed during an overcast. Sunlight has its limits in the city. Unlike in the mountains, where a sunset in a field unites every blade of grass in an omniscient glow. During a city sunset, you're either caught in a glare or a shadow.