Words on St. Stephen

He shook a cigarette from a crumpled pack and lit it with a match, shaking the flame out with a flip of his wrist. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, except I tell everyone. I’ve learned very little in this life, and most of my words aren’t worth the spittle that comes from my telling it. But listen to me if you ever gave a damn about something.” His Irish drawl hung in the air like the smoke around his face. Behind us, the sun was setting, our shadows stretching out before us, pulled toward the creeping dusk. “Tell your woman what you feel and allow yourself to feel. Feel hard. Be passionate. Allow life to knock you ass over tea-kettle. Because everyone one of those times that you're left reeling was precipitated by something wonderful, something that makes colors exist. Something worth living for. I see men go through life stoic, straight-faced, like something made of granite. And I think to myself, which one of us is missing something?" With that he stood up and walked away, toward St. Stephen's North, where the shadow of Fusiliers Arch bled back into the hedgerow.

Phases

I go through phases of voracious interest,
Consuming news articles like barroom peanuts;
The bland, crusted shells crushed and pulled apart,
discarded on the floor in the search for the fruit.
Words of experts and personalities,
Partisan philosophers,
Ideologues,
demagogues,
charlatans,
They all have their say, clouding and muddying
The same story. I’m left with shadows,
A light bulb burning out, a moth fluttering
Against a glass shell, seeking the spastic filament inside.