With all that’s said and done, he’s not sure exactly what to make of it. Monday is always the one day of the week in which upon awakening he thinks of starting fresh and wiping the slate clean of all the foolishness and buffoonery which often greets him with the rising sun. But today there is no rising sun, merely a warship grey sky and a little rain, and thoughts of trying to get things together and trying to realize each day is another chance to get things right. He walks with a certain joyfulness not often felt on such Mondays. For once it feels good to awaken and face the world.
These poems he writes are mere anecdotes, mere journal entries in a sense, verse in which momentary thought emerges and takes flight in a world that cares nothing for such worthy pursuits.
He carries with him thoughts of facing the world with just a minimal amount of joy, or at least enough that can be carried in the face of such uncertainty. He walks, trying to be honest with himself, even if being honest sometimes annoys others who have taken it upon themselves to be the arbiters of how one is supposed to feel. The joy fascists often lurk around corners, waiting to cart anyone off if they dare show even one sliver of what they perceive as negativity. They do this because it’s easy to run away from things rather than face them and own them.
But he carries an honest smile today. It isn’t often easy, especially when there are those just waiting to judge you for everything and anything. These poems he writes serve as the best defense against those who try to make you everyone else. These poems he writes are his shield against the daggers which are thrown from every eye that disapproves of you. For on this particular Monday, he is a crusader against those who don’t want you to be who you are. For on this particular Monday, he is the mortal enemy of those who have taken it upon themselves to be judge, jury, and executioner of the self.
New York City, July 2004