a man.
He used to stick,
the Christmas lights
on his room's walls.
Dark inside,
luminous outward,
to cough his lungs
with aesthetical nature,
to live always from the innards;
and deserve the others.
He believed too,
not without error,
that Mahler was the best patner
that a lonely man could desire.
Even better,
than the wind blowing through the bars
or the gabble of a deciduous train
crossing with antique devotion the rails.
It was grateful to know
how mistaken a man could be,
as Gorbachov,
as Kafka...
like an dense spit
in others throat.
Like the realm
of a calm river
another night adrift onto
the abject mouths of a lethal city.
Sometimes,
the more intelligent action consists
in not
doing
nothing."
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