Take heart, my protégé.
Your pain is only mine from the past,
though you make it real again
                        (Nietzsche was right).
Nietzsche has taught you insensitivity
    and that you are a ghost.
But Einstein taught me about light
    and that gravity is a coincidence.
I am here, and Nietzsche cannot undo me.
I wish that I could bring you out of the smoke,
but I have only my company and my smile,
    and that seems at least to keep the light from
        passing through you.
I can know nothing of the future
                        (of which you and I are exquisite evidence),
but I am here, and Nietzsche has, in fact,
    condemned me:

            To you, I am light,
    and, to me, you are gravity.

Don't bother looking at me.
I'm just the old man who missed his stop.
I've obviously made a mistake,
because, after all,
who knows more of human purpose
than the economist?
Those of us not wise enough to step off the train
just sit around waiting, don't we?

Take a minute to look at the vastness you're ignoring, you small-minded ****.

I had a son,
but some ****** ****** him off
and turned him queer.
No father ever thinks it's his boy
that will be taken away.
He'll never come back;
he says that he wants to;
he thinks he can.

In an effort to make this brief
                        (because self-pitying satire is the
                         least pitiable of all writings):

On the sidewalks, I hear collegiates laughing.
In my most intimate memories
                        (you know the ones),
        I hear bones rattling.
I have a trained ear, and the symphony of the human race
        sounds like cash registers and death bells tolling.
It's so hard to find quiet, or even anything calm,
        like your breathing.

It's a little monkey's birthday,
     and he's off in his own world.

There's a bear, always watching the sky,
    off in his own world.

Our little piggy friend is studying love.

Now, it's time to buckle down and decide
     who's worth it.

Reason, my sweet,
I've woken to find you
warming my bed once again.
Again, every moment
seems to have its place,
and the arc of a poet's life
once again seems in the
proper shape.
I know I won't have gotten far
before you're off again,
having your men, I suppose,
but, for these moments of Harmony,
when the hounds in my
lower chambers seem to be
quelled, or else off my trail;
when I am finally certain
my breathing is in time with Destiny;
when love of myself is enough,
and I am still enough to hear
the Melody and match the key;
thank you.
I will carry them with me always.

Is it better to run
from feelings that inhibit
one's flourishing as a person
or to live entirely truly?
Artists seem to have agreed
that the confusion of the latter
is well worth it,
and it certainly seems to be
putting bread on their tables.
So am I an artist?
Shall I suffer for the good of suffering, the study of it?
Or are the spiritual men the ones to ask?

It is a Summer of goodbyes to songs of the heart from moments past, crying melodies of old hallelujahs. My new friends, you hold before you a Wayfarer no longer as young as could be, left painted by the sighing brushstrokes of many starry nights and many starry eyes now in fresh alignment.

My friends, I do not fit neatly into arms. I do not fit neatly into places. I do not take kindly to the lapping waters of sleep. I am a creature in revolt. Let me close enough to you to rest my hands on your breast, and I shall in time rip away the necklace you wear, because I see greater in you than heirlooms. And you will hate me. And I will be faring on my way, and I will let my hair fall over my eyes and ever dream that I might have been the ghost you might have loved.