[Jeffrey]

This is somewhat of a tribute to Henry Rollins, whose style inspired the post-verse format I used to do more frequently. I wanted to go back to it but decided to try a piece in Rollins' format for fun - though I worked some internal rhymes in, and he wouldn't. This may be mature in places, but it's not flagrantly defying the Word. Just saying, use discretion.

Somewhere along the line you kept me up late at night planning conversations, and somewhere further along on the line I stayed up late planning revenge, and then finally I got to the point where I could start on self-improvement instead of spite. I read her from a distance and I loved her in a way I've never loved any other woman (yet it was still weak and unworthy of her touch). I think too much about sex in mechanical terms, think too much about marriage in romantic allusions. Somewhere in between lies the average household, and when I slink beneath their windows I hear bits of screaming that I know isn't from climax. It's one of the reasons I walk these streets: I want to hear you as miserable as I am, so I can remind myself that it's the human condition (not just my own personal problems). When I saw her from a distance, I loved her because she was real. I know that sounds like (crap) but she was: no logo on her collared shirt, no earphones connected to any device trying to cut her off from the symphony of the city and of nature's occasional stabs back over the concrete where its forests once grew. I knew that she and I could pass an afternoon or two in bliss before the problems began. When you are a good conservative religious virgin, and you ask a woman to marry you - do you discuss sex before the wedding? I'm sure you discuss financial matters ("Are you selling your car or am I selling mine? Do we buy a house now or keep one of our apartments? Where do we register?"), but do you suggest sexual anticipations? Do you swap desired positions (should you even be aware of any?), and turn-ons, go out to buy razors and wax and scented candles - am I a creep for wanting to make sure my lady and I come to terms about how we'll sleep? When I walk the streets, I listen for laughter, and when I find it I listen for motivation. Is it bitter? Is it truly joyful? Is it fake? I don't mind faking smiles or faking interest, but when I have to fake a laugh for someone I feel like a part of me dies. They quote a kitschy sitcom or call someone a half-slur and what I really want to do is shake my head with a frown. I'm hardly down anymore, and I wonder if that's why I walk the streets: looking for the blues that I lost once I started eating breakfast regularly and smoking pipes and working my way through the Psalms. I hope it's calm out on the porch tonight. I know when I finally talk to her, I'll wreck it. I'll talk about other love affairs, like Maya Angelou or Batgirl. Women hate it when you bring up old flames. I carry a torch for the torch's sake. Last of the Romantics was my Uncle Harold. First of the near-apocalyptics, I can only hope. Tonight, when you drive home, roll down the windows. Drive slow through the neighborhoods. Listen for laughter.