It closes in on you sometimes. The invisible weight of this life you are trying to create with only what you have in your possession: your voice, your hands, your storm sky mind. Mostly you ride it out. Fuck around a little but age is a factor now. You have kissed the mouth of the pain, wept and bled for it. You have placed your fingers inside of the wound, curled and disappeared in it. What do you have to show for any of it but more of the same. As I watch the holiday lights flickering on and darkness envelop the quiet city block, I see a few little warped pumpkins left behind on someone’s concrete steps as if forgotten by all but the hungry squirrels. Some adornments are an afterthought. So much decoration encircles the steel frame of the madhouse we’re living in. Last night he had me read poetry for him. Last night it was only the sound of my voice lifting off like smoke high above the rooftops, billowing soft and slow on the wind.