So what, then, is my condition? this idea—the feeling that i’ll die from what I’m missing—must surely go, at once, into remission—I will it to be that way. i never loved a woman that loved me; i only loved in fact, that which was bad for me . . . because, i think, of my mission: something that I seemingly committed to before I came to this earth.
now, the gravity of that decision—this idea that i’ll collapse into a black hole—is real; i feel it when I consider: my one true love, also, feels the gap between us—doing her best, through no small power of her own, to feed upon both time and space—as if that reality might replace the void, in our heart, that, without our knowledge, would connect us both.
but, i guess, to think it now, after most people, my age, have grown children, is fair enough—connected to my one true love, then, through the hyperspace—which, unfortunately, makes me want to believe, so much, in the afterlife, that, well, I find it more difficult to do—
considering how, the nature of this life, anyhow, is to long, no matter how happy we might claim to be, for the divine, a perfected space free of pain and lonely hearts, making desperate decisions that refuse our separate parts—and leave us anticipating obscurity.
why can’t my faith be steadfast all the time? why must i go, to and fro, living, one minute, on cloud nine, and finding myself, weeks later, suspect of that which, through no fault of its own, makes me happy?
so i fell out of love with a woman that,
i think, knows damn well she’s my candidate
and, because of that, could care a little less,
since i’m angry, now, that she’s getting fat
and destined, it seems, to be with another.
I’m dead set now, on a pair of blue eyes,
thinking, to myself, “fuck this,” and “why not?”
that is, i think, what I truly want, living
as i do, in the melting pot i now refuse . . .
eating my words—this notion that, to go
in that direction is somehow happiest—
especially for those of us that disappear
for generations in the mix, without any
assurance that we’ll surface again.
call me a racist for loving nothing but this,
anticipating some formal kiss of death.
i’ve been hurt, i think, one too many times,
by those that, I thought, would surely love me
for making, as I would, this contribution
to a seemingly inevitable, and lonely,
future. don’t i reject what I can’t accept—
and, i ask, am i wrong for doing so?
i didn’t become the person that i am
by selling myself short—so why, then,
should i give a damn? i don’t want to
marry what’s available to me, which, in
reality, is almost nothing, even that which,
in my cups, i’d think was my safest bet.
don’t want to marry that much at all—
relying, then, on my spite, and this
insistence on an afterlife—in which my
options would improve. so angry at
the woman i beget, doe brown eyes that
never happened yet, and, if i have my
way, will remain segregated from me.
i’m such a racist—i can hear you say it,
but i can’t help loving what i aim to be.
doe brown eyes rejecting me . . . getting
fucking fat and happy—leaving me
wondering if, upon the ascension, she’ll
forget about me—or deprioritize me,
and leave me, and my healthcare, behind.
Well, yeah, we’re witnessing the flopping
of the Confederacy—a racist state that
hates me too, since, as it happens, i’m
queer as you . . . subject to the brainwashing
that people do—resisting what must change.