So You Should Never Read the Comments

August 3, 2016

(for Jef Rouner et. al.)

In his own heart, every man is pure.
What discharges is like weather
unbidden and deep roiling,
the product of some butterfly
beating its wings in La Paz,
or the way his mother blushed
on some long ago summer night.

What confuses us is passion,
our yearning toward a meaning,
threshed by slipping gears of knowing
our own faces filling mirrors
with inadequacy and horror.
All the primal disappointments
that we cannot forgive ourselves.

Poke a bully — find a tantrum;
a hot-sexed gushy fanboy brat
aflame with indignation,
wronged by the world’s sad assortment
of his betters and his lessers
against which he perforce be measured,
and adjudged, and given favor
by m’ladies darkly dangling
in the smut black, close, and fetid,
room he locks the bad thoughts in.

Just as every soul is holy,
every mind contains a dungeon,
wherein dank devolves to garbage
and white, eyeless beetles scuttle.
If you think that you are different,
that you’re made of gold and ice cream,
there’s a dream I want to sell you
of a thousand years of progress
and the father of our nation
beaming sweetly on the bodies
of his slaughtered enemies.

So you never read the comments.

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