When strength fails me.

The tears. For fears.
A year. A year.

I have made a pulp of me.

Consistency. Infrequently.
Consequently. No victory.

The history of mystery.

When missing me,
is cease to be.

To flee and see.
The misery of he.

And she.

I am becoming a New Yorker.
a passive mind.
a judging heart.

We are filed in to start, like playing cards on subway cars, trying not to touch one another. The empty glances that last so long. I am learning to stare at others.

The way they stare at me.

It says nothing. It means nothing.

I stare at the loud children licking their fingers, the fat lady bathed in sweat, the trashy teenagers putting on another layer of make-up to their swollen faces. The jews, the thugs, the businessmen with their silly ties, the hipsters, the mothers with strollers, and the homeless. I sit there like everyone else, listening to each bum that enters the train. every one with a different rehearsed monologue of self-pity.

I critique him. Some applaud him. Few reward him.

The better the story the better the favor.
The better the flavor, the better the labor.

Laborless thieves.

I’m learning not to care. Or to love.

And by midnite the trains that were once packed have emptied out to almost nothing. all who step on are drunk with liquor. Always judging, as if we are sober. We will all be there. One by one. Like the homeless man who never knew better. In the middle of the night, no matter where we find ourselves, we each cry help to whoever cares to listen.

And no reply. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

For he is healthier than i. And none can judge the time that’s passing.