I cry everyday when I encounter greatness,
the ever so deep emotions of loss,
of people old and new and still gone,
and of time spent then and now. But
really I cry over the artistry of this meaningless life,
it’s beauty of formless smells, sounds and memory
and how it gives an indescribable
feeling of a place and time of younger days.
No more.

I cry everyday because now I’m sober, I
can’t block out realness any more of
the exquisite, pitched feelings of pity,
misanthropically expressed this tsunami of nervous
energy within me. This, I wouldn’t have any other way,
being close to me, being something other than me,
knowing there is value but not in what. Not
in life, I say, not in the other, but
in me….perchance.

I cry everyday because I am life, my tears
are real just like my body is real, it’s me.
The primacy of inner thinking is each of
ours, legitimate only if you can act it
out. Character is great, full of tragic possibilities,
the chance to be history maybe, yet the chance to
be you is even greater. Something worth
crying for, something worth fighting
for…something at least.

I cry everyday because of the impossibility
of wholeness, the impossible straight path is not
before us. No Faustian pact for me, I haven’t the
honesty for the devil, you see.
No prescription for the line of beauty, no scythe-like
eye watching from the control room,
no bony hand poking our pity. Nothing
is finished and never can be, it is ecstatic
transcendence, our fate for all thee.