As a reformed anonymist, I'm not one to look down on drunks.
But today at the bar, I looked up at one and saw a beautiful disaster.
Long dreaded hippie girls have a soft spot in the corner of my heart. From the patchwork dresses to the oxymorons of a vegan ****** addict, I've loved many.

But it's sad to watch someone create themselves through liquor.
To create a persona through drugs because that's "counter cultural."
To create another line of ******* about not wanting to be a robot.  
A message so timeless and repetitive that it's...

She was actually kind of personable.
The few times that day she could speak, she was even funny.
She carried herself with a grace that was quite remarkable for someone who could barely stand.
But she was on the run.
From a halfway house.
From a boy friend.
From a drug.
From herself.

There's no truly meeting someone who is already halfway out the door and already in the bag.

There was a desperation in her smile that I've seen before in my own reflection.
I don't believe in God.
But if you do, say a prayer for her.
I believe it's worth it.

the club is not the place to be
so the bar is where you'll find me
with my girlfriend doing shots
scanning the room and catching nods

your eyes hang in the smoky air
come on over, if you dare
trust me, I'll give you a chance
surely you see that, in my glance

my friend and I are laughing like girls do
my magnetic eyes push and pull at you
starring, you haven't looked away
I can see the interest, you convey

another shot the bartender places
confused, he gestures and your glass raises
I smile as my girlfriend whispers, he's cute
toasting you, we lift our shots and shoot

I won't beg you to on come over
but it's only wasting time until you come closer
the possibilities, I foresee
I'm already in love with your body

in confidence, over you saunder
in my mind the question, I ponder
obviously I see, you're in to me
but what about my friend... are you into three?

the Internet
is how we met
it begins all the same
the devil in me is to blame.
again,
I have sinned
but where will it all end?
rhetorical
it may seem
historical
but like a dream
starting out fresh and new
with a flirty how do you do
and **** talk to ensue
but now with another who.
I think I am clever
dancing forever
but the devil
is not careful
with my artist's soul
swallowing me whole
not special or unique
one of many you seek
sneaking in my heart
to tear apart
when will I learn
that hell will burn

He is an unpopular character this old man
Who sits and draw cartoon character
in memories of the dearly departed.

He said that he felt like crying,
but he wasn’t going to cry
Because if he did,
he might not like the taste of his tears
Those loose cells in the tears
is mostly of his mother and father.

He resented  them for not aborting him
He wishes that he was never was born.
Due to the facts that all his life he was scorned

He was in and out of intuition
Always in a state of confusion
Month too months he never saw the sun
He never felt the rain upon his face,
Only long session with the nurses and the
Physiatrist who thought of him as a disgrace

He recalled taking the train for the first time at age fifteen
And that didn’t turn out as expected,
He wets his pant, so he sat in his seat and slaps his head furiously
He was spanked by the nuns, ridiculed by Sister Margaret the head hunter,
Got a huge ****** thermometer roughly up his **** by a ******* dude
Suffered daily due to his severe autism behaviors

He is an unpopular character this old man
Who sits and draw cartoon character
of all his childhood abusers:

Mute that blare
Swing that low
There's no room
for the old oboe

Slide on down
Make no bones
Oh ! Mercy !
Mr. Trombone

*** on keys
Sax done deed
Clairinet nukes
that reed

Going down real
Feeeeeeel !
Jazz and coffee
So surreal

The plump moon lights up my room.

My mind is now a flat graph
no desire no lust no dream

the cold winds from the rumbling sea
make no dent on me
I look at my palms
and see the cracked floor
gnarled roots of mangrove on the wall
blend seamlessly with all I have
like once I had her in this room
love together
taking wingless flight to the moon
but now I more like sitting here
prospecting no words to rhyme
not angered at the blankness
for in this vacuous moonlight
I wait without a hope of gain
without a despair of loss
unconstrained for time
contoured by fireflies
alone
recounting a new beginning
from the end.