You can’t become yourself through using another:
you can become yourself, and then – through another –
l your promise.
This I promise you, and beg you to con-
a signature in SAD is wintry infirm-
little left to say but that a beautiful poem
of beautiful things is far better a
thing than my life or thoughts or self or desires
or brains or intellects or beings or ways of
seeing, doing, playing or mischieving …
… for I am without worth because precisely
I’ve become the person
I am and the people
Ultimately I’m me –
and that is my challenge.
Not my peace nor my kindness nor my
awareness nor my love.
Just a hole in the ground which
useless economics would have us
go fill with bags of cash,
as if cash could justly solve
my problems now: I am predictability in-
carnet, identified and typed, as obvious a
cipher as any other man or woman out there
who knows far better
the life of living unconsciously; of
simple enjoyment and ignorance of
matters beyond the Ken of Barbies multiple –
and consumerists various.
A strange thought is that: I wish I were able
to love being predictable: but I hate myself truly
for being this thing which you see: for the problem is
precisely I am wholly me –
and how can you know me!!!
And how can that be!!!
And why the fuck six exclamation marks – especially
when these are questions of terrible import,
not answers of simple negotiation …
So this is why I am weeping inside, though outside I am
not, and the heat of the moment leads
me painfully to see: originality is not mine;
I am as plain as Jane, and unkind to boot.
Reboot me if you can; reboot this life of
mine. Remind me of the places and people which
once made me so fine.
So the loneliest place in the world is this:
to be truly yourself you must find you-
self alone, without the people who make you feel about
yourself that goodness might be yours to
establish a start: to discover the
heart you never expressed; the soul always
trampled underfoot; the you which is the prison