Poor souls. One being mine, walk all around us every day. We participate in society whether we want to or not. That is, most people do.

At times, I wish to join in. Get a job, stick with one woman, have kids, and go to The Nutcracker each Christmas. But, I have chosen a different route. One who lives in the underground of America. Both physically and spiritually, watching my fellow bums dig through trash for food, pick up cigarette butts off the sidewalks to smoke, finding a  whole untouched one, and celebrating this discovery. Holding up signs that read, HELP.

There is no difference between them and me. I, too, represent a class of people lost in America. Or, lost in ourselves.

I talk to myself constantly. Reading from books out loud each day in parks, on busses, subways, preaching the gospels of Miller, Baudrillard,  Luke, and John. A man calling out for redemption, am I. A true disciple? Perhaps. But to be a true witness, one must believe. And there are days of doubt. Has God abandoned me? Or has he saved me from the mess that live among the crowds of those choosing a lifetime of misery? I’m not sure.

There was no misery with Cleo. Everything was gratis. Given to me without asking. She recognized the artist in me. In fact, she celebrated it. That holy ghost that is art. Always baffling me. Forcing me to pick up the pen each day and draw blood to put on the paper. She was smart. I was a fool. She knew that. It’s what drew her to me.

Then there is the mystery of Gladys. A woman seeking out only sensations in life, both physical and emotional. I sought her out only to be a part of something outside of myself. Her daring and dreamlike state with Kurtz’s Tower protecting her. Giving her all she needed to escape when times got hard. She was safe there in that carriage house off Diversey, looking at Goethe each day for guidance.

I should have stayed there. But then again, never trust a German.