poem: not another night alone

these times of year are desperate, are

lonely they are spider traps i can’t

talk myself out of, when it is midnight

and the depression is so repressed

that pulling it out

is de-evolution, fundamentally re-volting

to this grand new person i (almost)

am. where are the stars at 2 p.m.? i suppose

chopin could tell you, his piano live-wire

in my head, his notes smoggy and impressionistic,

too dense to hear

screaming, taxi horns, gun-shots,

men returning, men leaving, or the downfall

of western civilization.

i am not alone, not

terribly enlightened. i just can’t hear you: i’ve cut

off my ears, recycled them, made them

poetry, made them immortal.

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