Syphilitic alcoholics and impolitic
Hermits are responsible for too much
Of the species' best poetics. I'm
Talking to you, Emily and James,
Gustave and Arthur and Li Bo.
A man with muscular arms hobbles
Past the rain and sun soaked plate
Glass to look out at the indifferent
View. By now there's more truth known
Than we ever wanted to know. Hell,
The food is good, the hills green, the mist
Delicate rising in plumes from the pines.
"Something's gonna steal your carbon."
The man turns on a downtrodden heel
In a cloud of hemp smoke, his face
Scarred with pocks, one eye askew
And weeping. I love him as I love
The literature of the lost and foolish,
As I love the moss and the fog
Clinging like death to the hemlocks,
As I love truth, distantly. Don't hug me.