It was deja vu all over again.

I know this town like the back of my head.

People who live in glass houses are worth two in the bush.

Although I was tenacious, I never learned
  the wisdom and will of tenacity;
Although I was persistent, and praised for persistence,

From its crane arm, the massive klieg lamp cast
a notice to the church's tile roof.
The brownstone block with its plywood eyelids

Beautiful little bitch
with your fine bones,
thin and sweet ears,

It’s like something breathing
its last. God, it’s a lonely sound.
Pacific fog is blowing in.

You call out to the one who walks on castle walls,
wakening the storm lashing trees
to spell the stone steps of a night's curse,

The chopping of the chocolate, the zesting of the orange,
the scalding of the milk,
the pouring of the cream, the folding-in,

Vienna revolts outside; in,
an addict is bent
over everything ever written on dreams

an excert from The Ferguson Report: An Erasure

Not too old, not young anymore, 
almost three dozen years gone by. 
Not a failure, not a success—