(I entered the scene; black shirt, black jeans, a can of cider, bought at the liquor store where I didn’t pay for my cigarettes this one time; I walked out and ran, justifying the theft as karmic justice: Who doesn’t have a bathroom?)
How can the eternal begin but with the idea of heavenly bliss?
“We are doomed to choose, and every choice may entail irreparable loss”
I chose out of some skewed concept of autonomy: a hand had held my shoulder.
I should have known better, should have known
——That karmic justice was awaiting me: (There is no patriarchy here)
Who said that and why did they lie ——-
That escaping horizontal violence didn’t mean
I was free from pain;
The hand that touched me was eternal
felt like home; like a friend that I never wanted to lose; enter hypothermia
I thought the priest was honest when he said love would come to stay
Love did feel eternal, but eternal meant:
[Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it]
I did eventually find a bathroom.
Maybe the eternal is the rush of the urine as it hits the water
The mix can always be reversed;
The hum of everything sings as it did when we forgot to see each other and saw what we most hated about ourselves: the stench of being a person.
Aren’t climaxes supposed to feel like the resolve of a conflict
Or maybe I’m confused
And the climax never ends
But continues going on
Like the way dreams envelop images
And in the images the hand that felt eternal suddenly feels
To be floating away.
“Acceptance is usually more a matter of fatigue than anything else”
The hum of everything sings as it did when we forgot to see each other and saw what we most hated about ourselves: the slow acrid banality of existing.