Hello, my sweet enemy.

Your arms are a yawning chasm
A bottomless pit
The free-fall of growing intensity
And when you let go, I hit the floor.

So cold and hard is our affair-
Sleeping on the tile floor
Locking the door
Creeping up the stairs and
Falling down.
I guess I like the pain.

The mechanical eye has seen me.
I plunge to peril willingly.

Yet how can I leave?
None can love me; all are above me
In heart, in mind, in ambition, in beauty,
In soul and conscience and constitution.
My eyes and ears are windows:
I watch, but I cannot participate.
So it is with you and your implausible yarns.

Hello again-and again.

Flippered like a fish
I roll futilely from room to room
My eyes glassy, my jaws slack,
Tongue wagging furiously like a hamster in his wheel.

Insanity or mundanity?
I wake up, I throw on an old shirt,
I start the car and pop in a CD.
I walk around for a while and then go to sleep.
Just when it gets boring, I twist the plot dramatically again
With capers-plots-and stunts-
Outrageous schemes for love.

“Life is a tale told by an idiot-“ hardly!
What idiot could craft such a villain as me?
What idiot could invent such a ridiculous plot as
The history of the world, the death of Caesar-
The life and times of Rasputin.
“Full of sound and fury-“ granted.
Mankind fussed endlessly about such utter ****.
We hoard money, we build a castle of excrement
Only to die.
What fools these mortals be!
“Signifying nothing-“ nay, something.
But what?

Professor,
I hope you are well.
Have they papers in heaven or TV in hell?
I hope you can see me.
I hope you’re proud.

I remember your face, carved in stone:
The mouth of a principal.
(You weren’t a handsome man.)
You spoke like the ocean
And I felt you sitting on the couch
And ate your words.

Once you were younger-
Your face a blank slab of marble
Your mouth as straight as your words.
Born with a sad secret in your eyes,
Wounds without cries.

Once you were young-
Full of trees and cars and
Streets and stars and stories
And the lights were your Xanadu, limited immortality.
A head from the forest, a face from the city.
You might have lived forever.

And you were young-
A thin white boy in a prison of expanse
And denim pants and rock posters on your wall.
Your smile nearly hid your sad secret.
You were made for more-
You were born to be the Professor-
And you were suffocating in teen life and its
Frivolous affairs.

I look at you behind your drums
And wonder:
Would you have been my friend?

What do you want to talk about?

I have no questions
No memes
My word supply is running low.
I know you and you know me.
What can I say now?

But I want you-
Not in the way a man usually means it
But in a real way
Like meat and potatoes and pavement.
I want your company-
I want your friendship-
I love you.
(I know how selfish that is.)

I don’t care what it is-
Psychology! Dogs and foxes!
Brendan! Harry!
Japanese music or Chinese food
Or Greek mythology or French books
Or musicals or plays or television shows
Or even the weather.
Have you any idea how refreshing you are?

Your rants keep me alive;
Or, at least, they’re a big part of it.
Not at the time-
When I read them I drown
And my stomach dances with my kidneys until I need to *** and then throw up.
But later-
All alone at night when I hate myself
Or when I lose hope
I remember that you trust me.
I remember that you rant to me
And that I read quickly and I’m not judgmental
My words may be crap, but I listen
And every time you let it all out on me
I understand what I have to offer.
My parents don’t understand
But if they did, they’d thank you for saving their son.

Say anything. I’ll say something back.
That’s what the humans do, is it not?

I’m so sorry.
I’ll let you be.
But if you ever want to talk to me
Just know what a service you’re doing me.

The wicked prince of the power of the air-
Son of the tyrant-
Behold his power!

On the south wind he devours
The serpent; on the west wind
He carries war’s arrows.

His unkindness pays tribute, black and glossy
Like the midnight of his arms.
Chestnut pages wait on him.

His silence is majesty-
His battle cry is terror-
His voice is the canyon’s echo.

Descended from the kings of old
His crown is as white as the clouds
His gnarled hands grasp that which he desires.

The peasants till their soil in vain-
The prince seeks out their hovels
And devours them whole.

Cower, empire of Pan!
The evil prince is coming!
He soars and seizes what he pleases!

I set the stones in a solemn circle-
"Tomorrow I burn."
Yet the refuse sits-builds,
A mountain I cannot climb.

With the pretentious declarations of a martyr-
The will of a monk-
I resolve to rid myself.

I douse the pile in ******.
The lighter is in my hand.
But like my brother, searching for excuses,
My thumb refuses to move.

Instead I sear my skin-
A merciful punishment for such a man as me-
And walk away from the would-be bonfire.
Lest my soul sinks into the chasm, I lie:

"Tomorrow I burn."