It's thought a little stumbling as a walk home is taken that the air has ushered in the summer and sweet humid sent is all around. It's thought as you show her up the stairs and warn her of the steep incline that all the crumpling plaster adds an ambiance and makes mystique deepen in some weird way. It's thought that during the awkward door unlocking time that the overwhelming smell of curry in the hallway is somehow an advantage. It's thought that as she stares at the bookcase she stares in some admiration of all the titles wanted and some wanted in some wet way solidifies the reason for the steep incline and the curry. It's thought that as I cross my legs and light my pipe with what little I can scrounge from the spent plastic bag that I am somehow something in her blue eyes as she stares out the window at the trashcans and giant noise machines. It's thought that she would say something in some narrow language but it's all stares and hair flips and shifting skirts with lips pointed towards the high ceilings. It's thought that all the hungry grasping for splinters wicked in design is worth the collars and confinement.

Cigarette in the tray and a half empty can. In a time of constant rain sitting here waiting for the coming storm in an orange shirt. Flow of days - work rivers roaring with storm water - weed swamp creeks of the drink and smoke acting as poison reservoirs that often bleed from log jams making jagged twisted currents in the flow. Walking the paved banks of the tidal river with earphones in the morning, before the sunrise, the homeless and the hobo crowds - track jumped from the CSX line - waking up; and in the humid afternoon women jogging in painful shorts sometimes look over from the run - making the mind wander from the bearded ugly self - to the cool swift river slipping through.

Zoo birds have flown from the spinning trash of trolley tracks. Flown above overpasses of Vine street, past the old reservoirs and museums. Not greek or irish bent they flew below the sun their wings of feather muscle not of wax but still the migratory fear of height stayed deep. Zoo birds flew past the doors of neon bars on South turning heads of straight haired youth waiting in line beneath the crowded signs of stages. Those below the gardens of the Schuylkill saw them as did the drunks of Washington Square and the outlier northeast above the heads of near suburban lawns and fresh washed cars. Zoo birds have flown from the cages of spectators, where the eagle envies sparrow, flown only to fly beyond cages where flight is the danger of loss. They fly by night signs as moths scurry towards the moon but swing above the air in some high cluster grace not yet understood. Men and Women; tone tied and too high heel, weave the blue stairways of West Market and only from a glimpse from some high window see them in formation. Zoo birds have flown the black asphalt of the city, maybe towards the ocean maybe just to fly.

How did this happen. 3AM leaning on Atlas Shrugged with a full ashtray and an empty glass. Where is John Galt now. Where are these signs that young latina women see when they venture the field alone. Where is the high life without words. Without need or ash. A clean purgatory without need of prayer. I'm climbing that mountain, The forgotten middle of the Divine Comedy. There is no late Roman poet as guide. There is only clocks and pills and cigarettes and booze. Beatrice has moved to Phoenix, Brutus worked for Lehman Brothers.

Another raw naked day. After drinking half a bottle a coin was flipped. A time worn roman coin given a a gift. It flipped heads and spelled compulsion to go out. Alone as always I put my boot foot forward as everyone and walked poorly as the similar slept. Hitting a bar I drank and started a fight that I can't remember the end to. I'm not cut and have no signs of bleeding so it went as well as it could. The train has left the track.

Sometimes I put a nice shirt on and read the Inquirer with a cheap brown bottle. Those times usually end badly. Good times are passed out fully clothed with ink stained hands and a headache. Bad times are aching scared hands and a head, slow moving regret smoke visions of women with bare legs on bar stools and tough men with hard fists in bad neighborhoods. Most often I end up in bed having ended another thing. These ending of things takes a toll. Eventually you're paid out and the only turn is towards the river cold and rapid; where peace lies in the freezing and not in the fire warmth of others.

Beat down and street burned - high wind warnings all around. Another rough coffee day with only flashes and cuts from the night before. Lost bleeding weak men roam these streets - Atlantic City thugs who are deep and empty. Impostor wealth in sport coats stumbling the restaurants of Market Street looking for french cakes and high end shots. Naked men sleeping under thin blankets by trashcans shivering over steam vents on Juniper as high heeled women howl with clutched hand bags on their way to the bar. Stuffed collar christ men handing the new testament to cross walk crowds by city hall. The dead eyed millions struck by fierce wind to bend spines - a dead moon to crush us leaving a ruined speechless empire behind.

This is a beginning for this thing. A birth.