Names on the Wind

Who are you Mr. Masked Man?
I am my will.
I am gone in plain sight.
I am In-Your-Face-Hamilton.
I am the confluence of brooding and fucked
the midnight willpower switch-- good luck!
I am two lovers in a craven light pressed dockside and liplocked right outside a cold box warehouse at night. That warehouse is everything unsaid. That kiss is potential.
I am potentially anything you like.

Yes, but who are you Mr. The Masked Man?
Must I tell you again? I am languages you don't understand.
I am Smith-Thompson-Pauciloquent.
I am the blood in the shower you plunged away. We all wash away, such fragile creatures.

I am diabolic mysteries.
I am a crowfooted schoolteacher face ravaged by the disappointments of life.

I am quintessential folk songs rehashed.
Oh Alamo, you are how I feel!
I feel the solitarily neurotic delusion of wanting to both live and die. Pray I'll do both before this night is up.

Who?!?
Thank you, thank you, I can be found in caves and subways.
I am 6am time floating on the wind of sleeping bitchy women.

I am blank photographs. Pictures of the water bill, notice.
No, I am overwhelmed
the city where I sleep. What's left, and what's right.
I am her emollient gift, wasted.
I am hope, but I won't say it. Walking out of your door like you walked out of mine.

Who? Who?
No, Please! Don't make me tell you who I am. I am slippery peak progress paradox.

I am hurtful on purpose.
I am helpful. I picked up the aspirations that fell out of her pocket when she didn't have the composition to collect.

I am a collect call.
The anemophilous bits of the charged conversation, "Why don't you want to have kids?" floating all over every city in America, echoing off gridiron walls.
Night clouds in half light.
I am the volumetric emptiness within a freckled breast. That callous minimalistic solitude for which there exists no field manual. Termagant unease together as we sniff in vaporous silence. What's that smell?
I am what you think I think of you.

Masked Man! Mr. Masked Man! Who are you, who are you?
Are you really making me spell this out for you?
I am nothing but a man!
I am thrashing and growling about the bed. Because I am frightened.
I am cognizant that something is seeping into all our conversations like some volatile gas we are delicately trying not to ignite.
I am a match.
I am a crutch. God is a crutch. I may be God
or weeping Dream Eraser, wiping dark ledgers blank for a chaser.
I am my strange phases. You have nothing to fear.

I am inexpugnable.