The night hides,
the night shelters.
Even now,
with dawn
approaching,
it is dark.
A darkness
as deep
as any night.
Most people
fear the night:
not as in terror,
but in discomfit
and worry.
I have never felt that.
I liken the night,
the dark,
to a blanket.
I wear it as a cloak,
or a shield.
The dark pushes
the world away
and leaves me
isolated
in happy solitude.
The sun will rise
in less than an hour
and I will begin to feel
the pressure of the new day,
even though
mine began
hours ago….
I keep re-seeing
(if that’s a thing)
the location
in Glasgow
where the blank-cab
picked me up.
I do not remember
exactly where
this was
but the image
is crystalline.
I don’t want to active
any meaning
but being human,
I must.
I had yet to lean
on anyone
that summer,
but in a few days
I would be sharing a room
with an old friend
in Dublin.
This was,
in a way,
my last solo travel
and so it became burned
on my brain
and crops up
from time-to-time
up remind me
of solitude
as companion.
How long must I wait for brief moments of unaltered euphoria? Longer now as time goes on. Landmarks of prior moments litter my memories: Birth of my child; saturated with sound at a concert…. Too few now. In my youth I lived bathed in euphoria, like an endless desert sun… baking my soul with mind rattling consciousness. I owned the world… or a piece of it. The desert is still here… but that sun is harsh and that euphoria, the constant periods of joy, are few and unoften. I am either numb or drifting off.
Ink (flows, stains). 