Wednesday, December 2, 2015



Slight Hysteria

By the second week,
the dust is collecting in corners;
you now refuse everything.
It’s like bathing in public.
You’re always willing to collect
the driftwood; then stare
behind that vacant third phase moon
that carries your smell
across its undertow.
Your stillness is affecting
in white genetic granular specks
that together are the beach.
In the dunes
the shell you shed
waits
for the next high tide.

Going Fishing At 4:00 am

                               The crazy people live        
in segments of tomorrow
as if yesterday
is a sour joke.
We love them
We suck their protein.
We feed from their bone marrow.
They, in turn, 
send us home with care.
When we are gone,
they sit so damn still
in order to forget any obligation
to the routine of time.

In between the soft smiles
and kennel dog loneliness,
they cement themselves
with an element of childlike joy.
To them,
going home revolves
around expectations
never taken seriously.

Bar Room Philosopher

When asked
what he wants from life,
he puts down his beer
and lights a cigarette.
His eyes are lake ice blue,
his lips wrinkled,
his tongue slow to pronounce
his thought logic.

“I want 
women to lie to me
until they are unsure of their words.
I want
the companionship of sports
long after the competition is over.
I want
one friend
who will criticize 
my every foolish move,
never leave my side
and laugh with me on they way home.
I want
to battle death
in a manner that belies fear
and indicates the fun of life.
I want
a little more
than I have now
and enough time
to be thankful for it.”

Gerry Fabian