“History is a little man in a brown suit trying to define a room he is inside of”
-Richard Siken
All is not to
Be
Confessed to, first of all,
Dreary as the loin gets.
Even Eve shook a glint
From a third or a fifth eye, depending. But does
God in his indefensible wisdom ever mention
How racked and starved she’d been prior?
I guess we’re all our only advocates, if
Judged for the most part by our wardrobe alone, or respective
Kinetic vocabularies on the matter.
Like, there is a warmth that’s escaped me invokes more sympathy than
Man, I fucking can’t handle this mess.
Never a question, if you moderate correctly, of who’s inconveniencing whom,
Only a spectrum of hating/not hating.
Proper etiquette, of course, requires rueful
Quiescences, for a few months at least,
Relegation Elsewhere, Weight Loss, et al . . .
Sweet reversible fates,
There were never any exploitable openings
Under our elders’ hack spells.
Verily, no one is innocent of the conspiracy that gave each one its name:
Winter,
Xanthan gum,
Yarrow grown under halogen bulbs, and
Zippers, all of them wrecked in the thrift bins.
