Q: Is this a late lunch or an early dinner?
A: There is no such thing as an early dinner. Night is limitless.

What did everyone do after I left?
Tell me everything.
Fill in the gaps.
Seep into my empty spaces.
Pour it all out
So I miss nothing.

This campus, this hill, is now a foggy ghost land. The universe is shut out tonight. I can now have my blurry intimacy with the immediate acre. Happy zombies are heard chattering down the hill, into the parking lot. No sound escapes into the atmosphere. Lambent, locked university buildings that I wander lonesomely among, you are glorious and murderous on a foggy night! Desolate relics of daytime productivity are no protection from nighttime ghouls. Surprising architecture lurks in the fog: courtyards, terraces, sunken, raised, hidden, circular, landscaped, staircased, immaculately laid out but incomprehensible under this shroud. Deliberate staging ground for an invasion of body-snatchers. Large red glows light the drifting fog. Everyone else on Earth is dead and buried here. Yet I expect to spy a train hissing slowly through the interstices of these lifeless buildings.

After years of experiencing it, the horror that is existence has permeated my soul. A few nights ago I had an especially bleak dream. Bottles lined up in a row on a windowsill, and me wafting from room to room to the kitchen with the window, looking at the bottles, facing the plain horror of existence. In my sleep, a real but drugged vocalization—“hor… ror.” To say it woke me up. The nightmare continued unbroken.

I am an artist. My medium is thought.

A wordle of isism.org.

I enunciate how special Boston was to me.
You nod.
Lip-curve!
Eyebrow-furrow!
Feed on my bones
And I shall still elude.
Clueless curvy cathether!
Too deep I fester,
For your nose to curl.

November 15, 2007. Last furnished night in apartment. Enjoying my last two movies. Tomorrow is my last night.

It’s a wet night, cloudy. Tall buildings across the river release customary mysterious steam from rooftops. Steam glows in beams of light, unites with clouds. Atmosphere of benevolent doom. Noir. Art Deco. No sign of life. Only lights and self-propelled cars. This is my Boston. My New York, my Los Angeles, my London. Xanadu.

Will I have the perpetually itinerant life I want? Or will I settle down, raise a brood? A good night to contemplate that question. It’s lonely as the moon up here. Desolate moondust filters through the sieve of my years.

The newspaper is a shared heartbeat among all people. Our zeitgeist, my times; can you imagine a reunion of cosmic ghosts? Shadows of a planetful of people will converge. Oh, look at the fools that live today! How attached they are to what belongs to us. Rightfully. These were our stomping grounds. Some of us starved to death on the bare earth and others slept on beds sprinkled with petals, but we all encircled our globe somehow and carried this nebulous thing called a generation between us until the last of us passed. The world of 2007! The cadaverous babies about to be ripped apart by vultures, the beautiful famous people we all talked about, the hurricanes, the births, the deaths, our songs, and the twinkling of the lights of all our cities, villages and cigarettes! The noise we made! The 2007 noise! I saw you dying on TV! You killed my family! I ate a potato you grew! I sang songs you wrote! I breathed in your rotting flesh! We lived together! 2007 was the real Planet Earth, not this bunch of pretend people that think they’re oh-so happening just because they are the present. Gather ’round, my shadows. A great tie binds us together. We will read our newspaper again.

Let’s investigate
The meaning
Of this poem.
Yes, let’s!