In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood–
A lord of nature weeping to a tree,
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.
– Theodore Roethke
Apr 28-29 Simple. The night sidles in, cold sweat. They hand you glass after glass; what luck, you say, to chase the spirits with spirits. By ember glow of dimmed lamps and orange music, you raise your poison and toast the sober devils. Gin. Vodka. A long-island coffin. You drink down this cold impotence alone, quickly, to free your hands. Silent pantomine. A torrent trickles into the headspace, an echoing drip behind a wall with a crack. All around, the roar of sounds; you wobble to and fro, leaning through velvet despair, watching…
Somehow the misanthrope.
Like one acquainted with the night, you follow the concrete steps in search for gold, wondering when wrong became right; here, at night, they pave the streets with heartless stone. By day, we walk upon them and lose our names. Hungover, you empty one of many pockets into a gutter, collapsing. Unaware of the freedom in your shoes.