Graffiti. Most notably
"Class of '64" etched
into one forlorn  corner,
"September 10, '79 / Marc was here"
penciled on another, and one more
which just said "1988" -- generations
whispering amongst themselves
in lewd remarks scrawled thick
with purple permanent marker.

A remarkably correct sketch
of Fred Flintstone, winking, I think, at me,
or at something beyond.

A swastika, a swastika,
a large swastika, which was crossed out
and connected to an arrow pointing towards "CHRIST
WOULD NOT DRAW THIS!"
scribbled on the edge.

"You gotta have the Nads!"
with the Nads
underlined for effect.

"Raise HELL,
not WAR" but with "WEED"
printed in dark ink
over the former word.

Hundreds of equations, dripping
down into one confused
conclusion, like rain
collecting in a pool;
a wind-blown sailboat
wafting softly over
what "X" became.

Hearts encircling names
in private hotel rooms
where they can lie
together, and alone:
so many that I boggle
at their multiplicitous love
and wonder whether
any flicker of that passion
glimmers in our world, today.

The remnants of their aging hands,
these fishermen who cast their lines
across time, slipping their hooks
under my skin and reeling me in
against the faint tug
of my nonexistence.