To You Who Have Never Died, May

I'm A Poet,' The Young Man Said, 'and It's My Job To Remember The Sadness Of Things.

Did I Say That She Was Beautiful? I Was Wrong. Beauty Is Too Tame A Notion; It Evokes Only Faces In Magazines. A Lovely Eloquence, A Calming Symmetry; None Of That Describes This Woman’s Face. So Perhaps I Should Assume I Cannot Do It Justice With Words. Suffice It To Say That It Would Break Your Heart To See Her; And It Would Mend What Was Broken In The Same Moment; And You Would Be Twice What You’d Been Before.

The Extraordinary's The Norm.

The Moon Had Risen Behind Him, The Color Of A Shark's Underbelly. It Lit The Ruined Walls, And The Skin Of His Arms And Hands, With Its Sickly Light, Making Him Long For A Mirror In Which To Study His Face. Surely He'd Be Able To See The Bones Beneath The Meat; The Skull Gleaming The Way His Teeth Gleamed When He Smiled. After All, Wasn't That What A Smile Said? Hello, World, This Is The Way I'll Look When The Wet Parts Are Rotted.

Perhaps A Wiser Eye Than Hers Would Be Able To Read Tomorrow In Tonight's Stars, But Where Was The Fun In That? It Was Better Not To Know. Better To Be Alive In The Here And The Now--in This Bright, Laughing Moment--and Let The Hours To Come Take Care Of Themselves.