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