I run a risk of exaggerating,
claiming paradise, calming
design, angelizing some soul. Each day
is a fight, morals, disaster,
redundancy.
I was filled with promise, would’ve given
those years, to have tragedy for lunch. In
seeing is in hurting. In adoring is
in regretting. On art’s terms, into
longevity,
with seasons for redemption. To have
praised
in meaning the fantasy of music,
the blatant misery, so beautiful
with time. It starts with an issue, unto
its pain, close enough to unveil each
other. To glance over, to make gesture,
to half smile, slip on slippers, to walk in
decency, to remember youth, to
become perfect
in some other area. I was
surfing magazines, rereading poems,
wondering how legacy ascends. It
was ever so neat. It should’ve been
filthy,
filled with notations, too many hidden
liaisons,
too many disapproving rites. I run
a risk
of making havoc, of disavowing,
of recommitting to something made
normal in its flame.
Those ways, Sade; once so amazing, to
know many lies,
to find joy, to adore sullen
and sorrow.
