You can do anything;
you can view the world with
the amber-hued vision of
the jazz age and it'll be like
looking at the bottom of a glass
in a bar, seeing only yourself -
distorted with illusions of grandeur.

You do not dance with the others,
not even when the band
strikes up that swing fiasco.
Not even when she enters
and charms everyone to death
because she IS your death
and to dance with death is a bit morbid.

The name Trimalchio does you
no justice; you are too misunderstood
and too skinny.

There is no such thing as
reviving the past, and if you'd just
look up from that self-help book
maybe you'd see that the green light
isn't a reflection of her love
but of yours, and that it
is only a mirage anyway.

Come on, old sport,
take a break from your quest -
that grail can wait and so can she.
Take a walk, but don't scuff the toes
of your shoes in the ashes
because you never know,
she might look upon it as
a sign of asymmetry,
she might look upon the eyes
of that damned Eckleburg and
think she is looking at God's face
and completely forget you.

You can take that, can't you?
You've taken five years of it.
Five years of catering orange halves
to nameless faces,
five years of staring into
eyes and lights and dreams and
never getting anywhere at all.

Maybe once she finishes dancing, then.
Then you'll walk into the valley of ashes.
Then you'll forget she forgot you.
Then you'll do anything you want.

Woe. Yes.