“A young man is afraid of his demon and puts his hand
over the demon's mouth sometimes.” (D. H. Lawrence).
Your planned questions and critical tight passions, under scrutiny, always under assessment. Even the small things were tough. Am I approximately accurate or am I dreaming. Proceeding as though you needed you. And his little head somewhere down inside. You and your ushers stood by the table. You brought me in before our eyes locked smirking behind our enraged knuckles. You were born into a void scraping on the attack. It kept you awake and your hair in place. Your attempts to comb it brush it and straighten your scarf. Your demon born, hungry, wanting to spoil your declarations. Conciliated with vapor, your wing tipped vanity and fresh uptown start in this new land. Transparent emerald lanterns illuminating this new name like a sparkling mirage in the desert, a small crossroad. Ornamenting your booth with pieces of paper calculations suddenly haunting you in time. Trying to look useful, you advise me. How pathetic. Go on, read your newspaper where those rotting black bananas sit. Regard for those cunning visits and discussions about your performance, not about my reality. They might grind you into sausage unless you produce something substantial and who really gives a ****? Your vision is obviously obscured. Darkness peers in on you intermittently through the window of distant island wars. Useless absconders along disordered paths. Forgotten forever in the ****** sand. Telling your stories to those who would listen. Yes I remember then. Children could care less, not having the capacity to understand such troubled parts. Again and again, requiring close attention but you kept moving saying it out loud. Iced down bourbon mingled in the kitchen. I remember that sound, the ice tossed into the sink as you peered and swallowed your nightly dose. I notice this (again) when I smell my own prescription. Without knowing or saying you kept them and extracted their records on the evening hour. Superior dwellings and new cars were additionally central to you. Bi-monthly figures stirred in your cherry pits. You never know where one’s head is going with all this. My reaction cuts like a scalpel below the fleshy surface, holding you up to the light like paper Mache. You stuck a shard of glass deep into my mind. Presuming a forged response would finally show, but it is not so interesting. You wanted perfection so that footsteps would quicken your ladder. A light then came on quickly, breaching the room as you lay there gasping from my phone call. You did not recognize who I was and I was twice alone.