Curious Obsession

He prefers telephone wires.
He prefers to look at buckled staples
That have rusted over & under
Public information.
He chooses real-life but endears it
Fiction.
Classic elegance.
He prefers rocks.
Clear skies.
Trees & undoubtedly
Crumbling red bricks of antique
Architecture.
There are literary tears nearby
To replace the soreness
Of reconstruction.
He makes a note or two
On a tattered journal
That looks more like a tattoo
F/ Hebrew scripture: it's a style
That you wouldn't understand
Because it's liquid-fire w/ a sense of self.
Sense to bind itself together &
Even throw itself away.
Ah, the destruction of poetry.
He wonders to himself where that
Energy flies to.
His perception is a sacrifice
& as a spectator of him, I only know
Him as the strangest muse.