how strange this sadness...
paper thin yet quite audible, crisply tactile throughout 
every wrinkle in my being, each
crackle of its fibrous layer makes noise
bigger than it's weight and true dimensions, and i
hope to know i think and pray
that it is present-like, covering
a simple pleasure and mystery beneath.

i am on my own again, well me
and my cat Dublin that is. Great
apartment, good new job, and complete
freedom, and the fertile ground for my
self-loathing, ridiculous despair, and most
ambitious fear to seek shading in the light, to seek
out any bend or streak of black, through which to sneak
in and hide my sins, moist
in the warm shadow, patient
in the expectation of bloom.

...and fuck all this morose shit, i mean
i am exactly where i've been working towards, planning on,
and there is absolutely nothing wrong at all.
but sometimes that can be the most deilcate
and dangerous of places...
i start changing the truth of women i have hurt
and do not love, i start accusations of self, accusations
of such magnificent larceny, fraud, cowardice, and
insanity, but then
i fight and actually free the ink, resist the urge to punish
the words due to my own fear, and allow this day
it's own brilliant chance to feel how it may, to watch in awe
at how it can make perfect moments of middle-class beauty, out
from the most hideous of inbred and aristocratic
nonsense.