Words are like showing up,
sometimes they’re all that matters. The rest
gets martyred in a haze. The work, the interior
struggle, has to mean something. Days and nights
of neurotic and/or due diligence testing.
The fornication. It used to be easier to be anyone, start over
every night. It was lonely and exhilarating. But – ah! the same yearning
remains. The interior has just become a little more
obsolete, the self
more formed, less dynamic. And ah! the quietness
of me, yields
a real life, strange
but true. And let’s talk about truth, people. Truth is an intention. Truth
is a commitment
to that intention. A process
of expression. A voice. It is not objective; neither is it impossible.
Rather, it is inevitable. It is non -fake-able (un -fuck -witable), and it is the joy
of living, good or bad. So don’t shroud my hallowed innocence
with unnecessary concentration
or peace offerings. I’m not here to do the right thing.