Furtive glances,
smiles and whispers,
Shakespeare on their lips
they know no other

He is queer
different
Reads Poe and poetry

Odd music
creeps from under
his door
like the smoke
from
burning incense
spiraling up towards
flourescent bulbs

Doesn’t drink
Doesn’t smoke
Doesnt’ fuck

What makes him
think he’s one
of us?

What makes him
think he is
normal

I know the
framework
of the scaffold
they build
Headsmen
void of thought

Prefering poetry
in perfect one hour
periods
commercial free

seeking anyone
anything
that can save them
from the solitude
of thought

Shallow fools
who think
ambrosia
comes in six-pack
bottles

Smiling their
trap door smiles

I return to my
fortress of solitude
the door
with the creak
of a casket lid