This is what they mean when they say those things.

So.

Last night I spoke of many things with many people. Death and the universe, the way it all pretty much might work, and the meaning of a broken whiskey bottle. I spoke about numerology, astrology and the tarot. I spoke of old loves and new loves, and all the small ones in between. All the meanwhile, the spirit in me raged for another, and the child in me is crying because he is about to be left, and the poet is calling in the waning moon for the one he cannot see; the world is in flames, partly, and in breezes the other part, and I try to sit calmly in the center, with the good people I know, and the good nights making the hard ones less hard, and the bad ones less bad.

I passed out in a living room that was for the first time empty save myself, and woke up and thought about it.

Here's an older poem:

Did me like a Telegram, in France.
So I smoke to the night
And all the small, strange things it holds.
Perhaps you are smoking too,
Somewhere,
Under the haze of midnight
With its half moon fog

Carrying our solemn voices into the old light of the sky.

-March 29th, 2010