being a life-long loner,
I try not to be a bother
or delve too deeply
into the “social scene,”
or whatever they call
good ole fashion
youthful debauchery,
these days.

not that I think it’s a waste;
no, these are times to be fondly remembered,
when this town turns us old,
before we’re thirty.

our sad saturday
escapades
are about the connections,
the hot breath on warm flesh,
stares into eyes
(optimistic and watered and endless in their basins),
and slaps on backs,
not the plentiful six-packs,
(though they are nice accents).

…but, I don’t participate often;
I always leave
feeling more alone
and so tired.
worn and weary,
at eighteen.

‘cause me and mike
and all us guys
can make the sex jokes,
punch each other’s arms,
and drive,
but I’ll know the whole time
I’m only half alive
and when I glance at their eyes,
I’ll see
none of them are lying like me.

in a rare moment
mike might tell me something softly,
sadly,
but I can’t offer comfort
or be a friend.
I’m there for a drink
and a joke,
if I’m there at all.

a shadow
can’t hold a hand.
and I must be less of a man,
with so little substance.
I’ve never been strong enough
to sacrifice a part of myself
to another.

and me and that Sarah can talk,
and she’ll be like sunlight in my eyes,
bright and staggering.
a dream in the real,
standing right there,
by the fire, with the beer.
and I know why,
I need someone
in my mind
to survive,
but, I don’t know,
what about her,
makes me want to roll over and die.

I might make her laugh,
and she’ll think I‘m weird
in a way that’s strange
and hard to place
and hard to hate,
but I’ll still be a ghost without weight.

and I’ll feel bad when
mike,
(who she prefers),
makes her sad.
but I won’t know how to comfort her
or look into her eyes
when she cries.

I’m a much nicer man in my mind.

then, there always comes a time in the day
when I stop,
look around,
and see me,
in that wide world,
in this small, tired town:
I’m all lost,
skull cut and crossed,
guts tossed,
thoughts dissipating in the warm, spring breeze
that is beginning to mean
so little to me.

and yes,
I’m fearless,
but only because I’m so sick,
and I long for relief.

and yes,
in school, I sit at my desk,
relaxed,
feet splayed out,
like a renegade,
or drunk,
or some corpse, pre-rigor mortis,
left by everything but
the cold, silent embrace of death.

and in the end,
at most, I’m “a character,”
but that’s just a sympathetic title
for “some stranger.”

I’m strange and shattered,
by the hands
of myself,
or god
or nature
or situations
from a half-remembered past.

and the hands I hold grab the skull
that houses my mangled mind
and I hear some strange man’s voice say
“jesus.”
and for a moment I’m scared
that I’m beginning not to care.
and I’m beginning to believe
that maybe people aren’t universally born and breed and dead alone,
but I am,
cause all that I love
barely knows me
and I’m a stone.

And in ten years,
I can guarantee,
you won’t remember
much of me.

so what the f***
were the past four years for?
I guess not much.