I do not know where I’m going or where have I been, I’ve just been there at least once or twice admiring the wrinkles on the faces of men and women and other men and wondering what will it take. How will it be when I am of such and old greatness? As as I sit watching the stretched out smiles of folks I’ll never know, I only wish that trees would grow on the desert of my face and the people who smile would know who and I what and where I am at the intersection that presents itself. I want to look young forever from hair to chin and have age mapped out on the lines of my face like I have been there and have bought the shiny souvenier to hand over to you without anything in return. I always seem to be writing the same thing with a different voice so that the ones who never understood will hear again. I see my face when I see the mirror and ask why it is that the mouth on my face in all its glory would make it so that other faces and mouths stay far away behind the baracade of what they don’t want to say. I instead live in fear of what might not be said. How has it come to be that the face of man so thin knows not the joy of another face with feelings gone gone from him? And the hope of a man drifts away so suddenly, so fiercefully that even I don’t know where or how to start again? And the gin and the him from within him does not know how to be him without the gin.
Jan 1, 2004