The wind is always blowing here.
It rushes down out of the canyon
to the east
like a cavalcade of rhinoceroses.
The cyclists
struggle against it
the pedestrians
have to lean into it
the motorists
spend two dollars and ninety cents extra
each time they gas up
to compensate for it.
The trees on the eastern edge of the cemetery
are bowed-
to the west-
and their leaves don’t fall
they’re ejected
like screaming pilots from flaming cockpits
at wonky angles
until they crash into the grave markers below them.
And the headstones are all weathered
prematurely,
names and dates and histories
erased

while below,
wrinkled shells dressed in sunday suits
sit in metal boxes
pretending
that some shred of them
will last forever.

No streetlight penetrating the double-paned glass from the outside tonight,
just a faint flicker, faltering
in the hollow of my chest
to illuminate the room.

Dim shadows cast are drawn with
menacing cartoon faces-
they laugh animatedly.

There is
so little light
when you are alone-
sometimes.

Gilded, sickly yellow
glowing from a smattering of phosphorescent streetlamps
under homogenous grey skies,
which have finally started to sprinkle rain, after a day's worth of deliberation.
A late night songbird gives one feeble attempt at melody in the distance
and then is silent.
Tip-taps
of droplets
sent from heaven above
as they clatter against plastic car hoods-

to have travelled so many miles, just to terminate there. What grief.

the faint whoosh of engines still on the highway.
People running home,
or running from home,

I can only imagine.

It's grey, but it's
warm
and the people almost all smile and
wave
as you pass, even the
kids.

Early afternoon,
and the street's still dry,
the clouds are too lazy to drop
their payloads down on your head.

It's a bad part of town,
or at least it looks that way.
*****,
a little worn-down
rubbed smooth about the edges
and rusting at the seams.
But you're an outsider,
you don't live here
and maybe this part of town isn't bad-
not worse than any other part anyway.

The clouds are grey overhead-
but it's warm-
and the people are nice-
and they almost always
smile and
wave
as you walk by.

Silent street
punctuated by a single stag
stalk-still
against the asphalt all around
ten points
facing up at the firmament
fixed frame
the steam on easy breath
pools, puddles.

Noble beast-

neither needs nor heeds my blessings.

To ride these rivers of light onward forever, screaming infinite curses to destinations and endings-
We shall never die-
Until the undertow finally ***** us, resisting with all our might, into the abyss of aeons and darkness-
That darkness is unknown, but not necessarily black,
As much as I know, at least.

To run on forever until my legs are ground down to pulp beneath me, and then drag myself on with ****** fingers mangled against the world's mottled asphalt
Until old age or blood loss takes me
And removes the "I"
From my existence.

To forge forward immortal
'til proven otherwise.

I live alone here.
here is my island
where no man has set foot
but me
and if you’re reading this it means
you found a bottle
and this was inside it.
You see, I have what I
need,
water, fish, and coconuts
the weather is fine,
I lie naked in the sun each and every day,
but I am alone, and dead to all the world.
The only comfort in which I can partake
is these notes-
some of them letters to family and friends whom I’ll never see again
some are descriptions of faces or trees or sunsets I’ve seen
some are just thoughts I want to give to the world
before I eventually die here.
I hope you’re reading this-
because if you are,
it means I didn’t wither in silence
to be washed over by waves
or blown away
in a storm.
You, the reader of this note,
have validated my existence
by confirming that I ever existed at all

and for that I thank you.