FEVER
his ego burns on these dark nights. it burns like trash heaps in India on tuesdays. it burns like flags and bibles and bras throughout the history of passionate politics. his ego drips like wax, messy and uneven. it smothers his attempts at un-selfconscious conversation. his waxy ego gathers in pale puddles, tries to harden into resolve, but despite the coldness of his world remains feverish and malleable.
WAITING
his personality has become synthetic. in equal parts pretty and pointless. he wraps himself in yak-wool blankets and sits on his porch at night. thick volumes of literature lie before him, and he turns their pages. no redemption here. maybe in the next chapter. maybe tonight. maybe next week, all will be revealed.
NOT LIKE KEROUAC
he set out to become found to himself. it's been a year. it's been 16 months. and now, more lost than ever, he disintegrates before his own eyes. he tries to catch the sands of what he used to believe in as they trickle, insubstantial, into passing time; happy to be free of him, and of his need for love, which blocks all other progress, and which will not, ever, die.
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