I'll ring your doorbell. Until you let me in. I can no longer tell. Where you end and I begin. . Grape on the vine, grape on the vine. We've been alone a long time.
Not one motion of her gesture could I forget. The prettiest bag lady I ever met. Pushing her cart in the rain then gathering plastic and glass. She watched the day pass, not hour by hour but pain by pain.
My exit unobserved, and my homesickness, absurd. I said, "Water," expecting the word. Would satisfy my thirst. Talking all about the second and third.
If you fail to see a problem. Which I find hard to believe. Or if you're hanging on from branches. Licking honey from the leaves you say. "The hopelessness of living, the childishness of suicide".
January, 1979 saw a terrible crash. And it couldn't help but laugh. My ear pressed against the past. Like a glass on the wall of a house in a photograph.
You might sleep, but you'll never dream. Onward, progress, or so it seems. And you might laugh, but you'll never smile. Come on in and waste away awhile.
I wrote a four word letter with post-script in crooked lines. "Though I'd lived I'd never been alive". You know who I am, you held my hem as I traveled blind.
On a bus ride into town. I wondered out loud, "Why am I going to town?". And as I looked around. At the billboards and the stores. . I thought, "Why do I look around?".
Let us die, let us die. Then dying we reply. Oh, don't you tell us. About your suffering. . Now look in our eyes. Look in our eyes. Let us be, let us be.