3 AM Writings

And still, my thoughts, they wander toward you

As I sit and contemplate lonely jazz poets and sulking homosexuals, free with themselves, but dying at the chains wrapped to their feet in a bubble perfection world

My thoughts, they turn toward you

Toward the nights of endless love, oneness, pleasure, holding melancholy tears and beautiful stories that I pour and you pour

Toward lunch, meals spent on legs or in lonely open halls of eternity – students flowing to the outpour of human flesh, the ground meat of poor lovers lost in work

Toward the people I pull myself apart from – in Buffalo – the ones who don’t accept differences until slapped in the face – you, when I’m angry or upset

Toward snow and torrential rains that follow me as I roam the country, hover over my bent back with no job –I tried to feel sane, here and in New York – I tried to feel here in a place where I can be or should try to be

And I look at things I say, things I think, people I brush past and feel hope for

And I look at the bums on the street with their smiles and cry to myself later because I don’t sit in the sun with my dogs, smiling at all the people who stroll by without a glance, asking for nothing

And I meander down shop filled streets and pull apart my head, passing the windows with stuff – stuff that nobody needs, but all want

And I drag myself to lakes, to the tops of mountains – to feel something: the wind on my back, hopefully about to make me stumble

And I pull myself back to my room to sit in bed and stare, stare into nothingness and hope to feel you

And I think of you and I think of love and I think of your love and my love and I think of the love of a man and woman and I think of the love they make and I think of the love they try to share and I lie away and here attempt to subtly subject myself to the horror that is sleeping alone.