“I am the cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me” (R Kipling, The Cat that Walked by Himself).

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“Do not ask who I am and do not ask me to remain the same: leave it to our bureaucrats and our police to see that our papers are in order. At least spare us their morality when we write” (Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge).

no — not ever

no — not ever.
the horror,
the terror,
of loneliness
is nothing, but
for the insight
that it is
ontological.

blue-gray city,
looking across
the harbor,
the steel,
sky, and waves
all seem
the same color.

stern faces,
serious adults,
so concerned about
some result,
so willing
to punish to
make it happen.

a hawk’s wings,
against sky blue,
a brown, red,
blue, and white
camouflaged
cornucopia of
multi-colored corn.

a proud, war-worn
face, 1940s cropped
hair, jaw raised
defiantly, vainly.

it’s mine!
no it isn’t!
you’ve had enough!
no i haven’t!

on the edges
of the party,
there was
a funeral.

yellowed brown the face of learning

yellowed brown
the face
of learning
trying honestly
and small
moving
to keep warm
rainy dry
green blue
leaves overhung
my spotted vision
once gone
once away
once fled
into rome
for a day
i paid the rent
once more
again sinned
to call it
that again
my watches
of water called
and my words
the words of all
the streets i’ve walked
the halls down i’ve called
sunlit white façade
bluelit lacking shy
i honestly know not why
you turn your head away
from my mind
all mine, oh that’s why,
to relearn one’s own voice,
the texture of black
writing your delusions
slow on a sack
of intellect spilled deep
and far, but not wide,
there is no more to hide
since we called
your home phone
and caught you at home
watching yourself
watching us all
the all-ready there
placate the mind bare
found walking on
shadows of gardens most fair
your hair was not
the fall of water i’d hoped
nor nose the right shape
nor mouth right hook
but who called the gods
those self-centered dogs
presiders o’er pagents
and moralless hogs
fogs creep their stage over
w wittely humid
their image their face
and that face a hood
don’t be so you
and i won’t be so me
but i’m just speaking
of my wants there to be
another me but better
a craving i watch
stroll down the halls
with eye-squinted clutch
of my throat of my eyes
of my arms and mouth
what wall did crash down
what words ring aloud
crying
crying sobbing
lurching
heaving
outpouring
years of long debt
i decay tomorrow today
it’ll all be alright
please let it all be ok.

the mirror in which life reflects me…

the mirror
in which
life reflects me
is extraordinarily
unfamiliar;
startled
i wake
and
startled
pass the mirror
and am reminded
of my form
in the dreamed present;
somehow trusted,
i say ‘i’
and consider
indicative of you
my perceptions
of a ‘you’,
reflections
in the nightmarishly
pleasurable
mirror
of these eyes
a 2-dimensional
world
extrapolated 3-dimensional
and given meaning
out of nauseatingly
unsettling habit
feelings
dreams
thoughts
images
arise
abide
decay
all of their own
momentum.

nothing is intoxicating
if you look at it coldly,
clearly enough.