It is about 4 pm on a afternoon turning to rain. He's handing poems printed out on seed packets to most people who don't care at all. They'd be the last person who would ever want to look a a poem or consider a story about love or longing. It was his idea of being heroic and reaffirming innocent. He's a little buzzed, but not feeling the darkness that overpowers him towards midnight after he's climbed the hill to a decaying Victorian he lives in with huge damp roses that lean down like sleeping heads towards the filth of the small dirt spaces by the guarded bars of the basement windows where he loved a girl and she moved to Japan.
Later he's recovered his mind by about one AM in his silk bathrobe, landing softly back into a life with heaps of papers, a pipe, and a crazy quilt stacked bed with Japanese haiku circling overhead. He sees Mark Twain in the mirror with a hat that an Indian wore once, a calm sure reinforcement that boosts morale in the gentlest siege of the soul. The gentlest siege through eyes and mind that begs for beauty in a world of gasoline, progress, mashed bottle-caps, boiled food, and disconnected telephones. A few of his seed packets here are at hand, and having no witness there is the joy of scattering joy nonetheless and believing it would kindle a few more who will go deep into their own forests and cities and find then give back.
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