living here, and thinking this much: no aches and pains in the next life—but does this yearning for God never abate? hurt people hurt people, go down Moses, oh, the things I suffer for a pair of blue eyes—lonely as shit in this capital of difference—a far cry, i think, from my heavenly home . . .
what sickness is this that gets my goat—making me angry at what doesn’t float my boat? Well it’s my problem, not theirs, that much I know, and yet, in the next life, i don’t imagine a world as isolated as this.
well, don’t hear my words and think, well, he needs to get out more, because, as it happens, i’ve been out there in more places than one—there’s nothing, in this life, to make things right—this place, as such, is as good as any . . .
it’s the love i’m missing that would turn things around; making me content, i think, to live amongst a variable world—every kind of skin, every kind of girl. it’s torture, i think, to get so close, when something as blatant as a family of my own isn’t part of this equation
well, in the next life, i probably live alone . . . convincing myself, that, for now, I’m happy enough to be there then, until it occurs to me that this is happiness already—and i just don’t see it because I can’t help looking through other people’s eyes—well damn this method acting, it makes me a stranger to myself . . . convinces me that I’m unhappy
because i’m different than all the rest—keeping my cards close to my chest, waiting for the perfect partner at the perfect time—instead of settling for something that wouldn’t ease my mind—
happy love, Scandinavian, absent to me
don’t belong to this cruel, hateful country,
thinking mostly, that i’m scraping bottom,
applying myself to an infinite sum
don’t get me wrong—brown skin is due
that doesn’t mean, however, that they
accept me—and, I wonder, if they do,
what about the bigot that gets his way
pushing me and my disabled mind
further and further from what I see
when I look in the mirror and i find
that kin and kind are enemies to me?