This is a work of fiction. When I began writing, I did see myself as the goblin I describe. But then as more of this idea got onto the page, something I subconsciously hold back from myself came through in the lines that I won't identify with. If I should give that something a name, I might call it distant benevolence. And if I reflect on my real relationship to that, it's probably true that it is always around me, animating all the small things. The only way it could come through in 'such writing' is if it were made of real stuff. So I believe it is, and isn't that nice?
_{by 'such writing', I mean unfocused pattern-recognition, not aiming at any point, but flowing out expressively}

And there's another thing to address. A reliance on drugs. My personal case is not so dire and exaggerated as my fictional goblin friend would pronounce it, but I think I should take him seriously in this, if it turns out that he is made of real stuff in my brain that I don't like to consciously look at. I stated here once, and therefore I asked you all to come on the journey with me, that I would cease smoking weed. While I still intend to, I haven't yet. Not totally. And so this goblin must be animating my shame about that in this playful verse. Interestingly, his existence was born out of a drug-state, so, well that might be obvious.

Enjoy

I am the goblin

that lives in the cracks.

I am in and out every day

to take my snacks

away.

You don’t see me, but we’re friends.

I like to think of you as brother.

And after all this silence and sneaking,

the covering up of my coming and going,

I decided to speak. I wanted to reach

across the distance from my mouth to your ear,

as it’s likely you won’t hear,

but rather see: this is what I write to thee

—you.

Something new is happening.

At night what comes to me,

terrorizing and distressing,

is the thought of infinity.

And I noticed you’ve been out of drugs lately...

Forgive me, yes, I take the scattered crumbs of your drugs

but you always leave it just so,

I began to think of it as a code between you and I

for ‘Come on little man, get high’…

so I guess I wanted to know your reasons why

the scatters are dry and the flower is gone.

Because it’s a new year? you thought you’d be a new one?

Huh, humans are always doing that,

reinventing, revitalizing, recycling, igniting —hack!

I scoff at that. But I’m a goblin, it’s what we do, I have to.

Yet— it’s true, when I think of you, I think there can be something new.

You the singular person, you the absolute.

If a new calendar date can make you resolute,

than whatever, so be it. I hope you’re changing for the better

because you really have a chance, kid, I mean it.

All right, you got me emotional, now I might drop the whole

thing. Forget I mentioned it.

I guess I wrote to you out of loneliness, really.

It’s silly. I’ll slide back through the cracks now. Crumbs down,

empty-handed to my hovel in the slats of the floor.

Here comes my desperate hour of silent terror in the dark.

I do especially like ending it all on this line. It's rather dramatic, and if I am a student T.S. Eliot, I would say it's sort of like him. Not what you would expect from an impish trickster. My goblin has layers, I think. Maybe I'll write more about him someday.