Be brave! Be brave!
I hear the cry
call sharply through
the enveloping mist;

every evening the fog settles
down atop this sleepy town.

'Though temptation bleeds
from every fractured brick!

In this mist I feel
invisible; a sprite, a specter --
an evening wisp diffusing
down streets and alleys.

The darkened smudge of
another average man.
He walks by, equally ephemeral,
and dissolves again into the haze.

So it has been until now,
even without the fog.
They always pass by,
fading again into the haze.

Although the sea may take no pity
on a stranded boat, do not give up hope!

The fog is my sea, and frosted
grays my gradient to infinity.
Vacant echoes answer my calls:
"How are you?"

Okay. I'm always okay.

Then listless lapses into silence.
I wonder if passion died with God.

If it has, you're the one who killed it.

Formless voices fill the air,
murmurs with pangs of guilt.
Growing and growing,
the dissonance turns to consonance:

Silly child, it's all in your head.*

The streets are no longer familiar,
my own hands now seem foreign.
I hasten to catch up to another soul;
someone living to help me find the ground.

Only my footsteps sound in the night.
No one else is awake at this hour.
Insomnia, alone, takes these walks with me.
All the while commenting on my folly

and the white, beckoning infinity.

Yesterday
I felt like a character
in a Hesse novel;

all I had to show
that time had passed

was the lingering scent
of tobacco smoke,
an empty *** of coffee
and a banana peel.

That, and a vague comprehension
of my impending mortality.

Drinking alone makes me feel
sorry for myself, so I avoid it when I can.

I walked over to her apartment,
with a six-pack in my hand --

no ****** beer, no! The finest
local, solar-powered confection.

But I never made it inside;
never made it through her door.

I met her just in time
to pass her as she left.

But that's the story of my life, I suppose.

I see how my life
is dripping through
my hands;

how these years are my "prime"
and they'll never
come again.

Somehow,
it's Saturday
and I'm drunk once more.

Sitting
in my living room
spinning towards the floor.

I'm not asking for forever.
I'd settle for a moment
or two.

I don't want to hide
from inevitability.
I'm aware all things
tend to fade.

There's no need to
pretend we're immortal,
and I'm happy we'll never
get the chance to be so.

I've thought about what it'd be like --
to live forever, with myself.

I imagine it'd be like a new city
every weekend.
I imagine I'd see the same people,
just a new arrangement of faces.

I'd know all the pitfalls and say, quietly:
"Ya know, I've seen this before.
Maybe you shouldn't do that."
But I don't speak loud enough.

Oh well. New week, new town.

Then I think of all the farewells.
I'd probably become numb to good-bye
and forget to ever say hello.

I'd get stuck in my head
and know the story of every person
without ever speaking to them.

Watching them walk, I'd make
up their stories for laughs.

She wanted to be an art history major
but prudential planning interrupted her thoughts;
now she studies biology, or chemistry, or physics.
She isn't happy at all.

I can tell by the shoes that she wears.

He wanted to be born as a peasant,
unaware of money or cars or the lot.
He thinks people are happier like that.

I can tell by the shades that he wears.

She wants to be a trophy wife.
He wishes that he never had kids.
She thinks she's too good for manual labor.
He once lit a bag of cats on fire.

I'd laugh at the stories unfolding before me.
After a few generations, I'd know every
story combination that ever could be.

So, I'd turn my gaze to myself
and find another lonely man
making stories in his head
without ever asking if they're true.

I don't think I could handle forever.
Sometimes today doesn't end soon enough.

Some things can't be fixed
by fate or time,
and there's no rewind.
So, I'll say good-bye.

I'll miss yesterday,
when we used to play
but it's not the same;
that time's not today.

Now all we do is fight;
no one is ever right.
Please don't think of me --
of how we used to be.

I knew you before
(how I once adored!)
but all things change;
yes, we have changed.

I search my mind,
afraid that I'll find
you still standing there.
Sunlight in your hair.

"We hardly speak any more."
I know it's true,
I hardly speak at all.

We used to often talk,
staying up late, letting
our words play their games.

She asked if I'd rather
live alone on an island --
in complete solitude --
or be trapped in an apartment,
only able to watch people walk by.

I said I'd rather watch the people walk by;
at least then  I could pretend that happy
people still existed.

Today it feels like I'm in that apartment,
watching people walk around me.
They don't seem happy.

I smile at them;
they never smile back.
I wonder if something's wrong with me.

I stopped talking when I started writing.
I already spelled everything out on paper,
and the words never crawl back into my mind.
If those words ever get back home,
I'll tell 'em all how I feel:

One:

You can't help anyone with words,
who needs something done.
A sentence about your love
means nothing when you're
twenty-seven hundred miles away.

Two:

Strangers are more alluring than
people you know closely;
that, my dear, is why I'm terrified
of getting any closer to you.
From a distance, you're so beautiful.

Three:

Sure, we spent a few weeks cuddled up
in your room; but your lifestyle is the reason
that I fled from Southern California.
I don't want things.

Four:

He's just going to end up killing you.
One instance of abuse should be enough
to send you packing. You crawled back for more.
I understand -- too well -- the lies that get you trapped.
I keep waiting for that phone call.

Five:

A woman should never be a reason
to abandon your old family;
although I see how her children
are your chance for redemption.

Six:

I wish we talked more often;
more than once every few months.
You're intelligent and articulate,
and the hour or two we spend
(not often enough)
fills me with hope for the world.