Like Father, Like Son

Down the lines
to slow
estrangement… till
I’d move into
a one-room apartment
close to work
and closer to travel, with
barely a window, hardly a view and
seldom have it mopped, but
have those shirts
dry-cleaned and routinely pressed,
reread escaping books,
revisit reruns and
stranger passing screens among
the angles.. each
wall makes
with the same ceiling.. and
in time, get restless and visit
a whore
or two – which
I’m not sure you
did, but
only get lonelier… to turn
to the reeds, needles and white;
then quit the drugs,
then give up whisky,
then stop smoking and
try
starving
from time
to time to test
how much I can take, though
I doubt I’d be able to do it
as well
as you did.

    
No saints
you and I, but
each of us
belonged… to
a woman, whom
we mistreated
in our different ways, as
they did
in theirs, and
it seemed
that everyone learned
to live
by themselves, though
it’s us – you
and I, who couldn’t
or can’t
care or smile
as much
for ourselves
at
all.

 

From Book IV

Distant

distant

The nerves keep their habit
of stretching thin and breaking inaudibly,
most pitifully,
every chance they get.

 

And long have I failed to count
the number
of strange persons
wandering the cramped foundations of this cranium.

 

At times, this inward space
is all too little
for me alone. Yet,
a constant foreboding of voices
so imminent that I can forever almost.. hear them,
fills.. fills all my space past brimming!! till
there’s no longer room for me to exist, save
as silence.

 

Antisocial Diaries /1/

pexels-photo-220444

No good
at small talk, except
with animals and people I’ve
grown to trust, and see
they mean
no harm. I keep
my distance and observe
how someone acts around
authority, before deciding if
they’re really
worth knowing:
first
comes reading whether their
shifting sounds and varied gesticulations
could somehow amount to an idea
of actual merit
or substance, besides
attempting, by
exaggeration and charm, to
sadly further
their petty, sycophantic agendas.