By Mike O’Cull


As years go by,

I understand better

The ravings of mad men

And the rantings of the women

Who drink with them.

I fear the descent into their primal state

Is upon me now,

And I feel myself made closer to the edge,

Closer to the Travis Bickle in me

Than I have ever been.

I’ve stewed in old ramshackle flats

Rotting for a century

And occupied by despair.

I know the isolation,

The social push to the fringes

From all my betters.

I know how it feels to walk the streets,

Talking to ghosts and shadows of the lives

Already lost.

I resist as best I can,

Focusing on what life I can find.

I don’t want to end up back

On the streets of Edgewater

Raging at the ridiculous nature of life,

But I’m beginning to think

I don’t have much of a choice.