Unable to cope with the demands
of daily subsistence,
and the
insistent hokum
of the modern world,
I return, pitiful,
to myself once more,
to my own little niche
on the bleak margins of things,
a casual observer
of the happenings of
life,
drinking in the illusory promises
of warmth and comfort,
knitting a better brand of reality
out
of lies and daydreams,
embracing the death that is
anonymity,
making love to the cold hand
of loneliness
without a stop,
or a fetter.
Not a fetter.
This is who I am.
This is where I belong.
This is where I am accepted,
at least, by demons.
May 1996