The Urban Elf

Recently I have been fumbling through sketch pads and notebooks looking for any number of things that I should have properly filed for future reference. This of course means that it takes me forever to actually find (if I'm lucky) the thing for which I am hunting. The consolation prize is that I find along the way scribblings and bits that never made the transition from paper to ether.

I recently stumbled across this. It is undated, but I suspect it spilled across paper back in June of this year.
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Adam cries for a love
And a life that make sense
While anesthetic poisons
Flow through my brain
And back again
And I’m wondering where I am.

So much reaching
And so little grasped,
Held, pulled in tight
To my beating heart
And heaving chest
That bears too much
For too little cushion
Or flaunts some other flaw.

Cigarettes and scribbling
And poetry recorded elsewhere
Cannot fill
The hungry space they leave
The boys and men
Who find me but fail to
Find me worthy of pursuit,
Offerings on their altars
Kindly or not so disregarded
Despite their fostering
Of my attentions.

So here in the streetlight
Past last call and cab ride
And stumbled stairs
I listen to his pained questions
From the box with its lone red eye
And wonder how anyone
Thinks that it‘s different
For girls or guys who like
Either or both.

It’s empty,
I think,
Of reason or sense
No matter who you are
Or where your heart
Or hormones lead you.
People are confounding
And everybody is wanting
And needing
But never what is offered,
And seldom
What they pretend to seek.