A Glimpse Underground
Basement of a derelict apartment complex,
Astoria, New York, 29th street.
One room is worn-out, lived in.
A bed with a table
A table with a man.
One florescent light drones and click...click...clicks.
The floor is sprinkled with tired calculator batteries
and castaway pencil nubs
and dusted pink eraser crumbs.
The table is strewn with tired notebooks
and yesterday's Chinese cartons
and yesterday's fortunes.
Calculator numbers click...click...click.
He spends his birthdays on a barstool
He spend each Christmas in bed.
Right now he counts
he sighs
he rubs his eyes and closes calculations for the night.
Hour hands wave goodbye...tick...tick...tick.
He lays quietly in a twin bed without turning the lights out.
He registers a lullaby of one florescent bulb.
An Ambulance cries outside.
A couple laughs through the wall at his head.
He closes his eyes slowly and whispers:
"There is no problem I can't solve."
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Hysterically mourning in his corner,
unable to look Liza in the eye.
Sobbing, thinking
how can I be inferior to a slave?
Ashamed not of financial poverty,
but humiliated by moral bankruptcy.
Seeing love
as nothing but a struggle.
The lover being dictator
over the beloved.
Unable to live
without power and tyranny.
Yet,
he is yet to realize
that love is his cure.
Eternally searching
for nothing but himself.
Everlasting paranoia
that drives him to insanity.
His illness is not that of his liver,
but that of his mind.
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