But, if you look hard enough, everyone,
in this life, has some imperfection,
some impediment, that, under the gun,
would ruin our chances at creation,

and the love that goes with it, hand in hand.
So, to live in this world, and dream, too,
of what shall come in the next, I must stand
for the soul, the beauty within, that, in lieu

To make a long story short, I exist,
and thrive, at a distance, forgiving this
life of solitude, a slap on the wrist,
considering I’m hardly taking the piss,

and refusing to look at beautiful women
out of spite, to punish myself, for being
unavailable, as if I’d a choice, then,
and as if I’ve a choice, now. Nothing

I won’t allow myself, at this time in my life, anyhow, to weigh more than 170 pounds, but I am no longer the same; I feel that I must eat something, at some point, during the day. The ground is shifting underneath me, as I allow for significant changes to my routine.

But sleeping naked makes me think I should
be having sex—that a body should be
in my bed, doing, with me, what it would,
as opposed to a predictable me,

doing with me what I imagine I’d
want, if, somehow, the tables were turned.
Her desire, her love, is what I’m denied,
forced to rely on the orgy i discerned

Why not live my life as if I’m married?
Work less, shower at night, sleep naked?
Perhaps I’ve let myself go to seed,
thinking I can’t be me until I’m dead,

or, if I should be so lucky, in love.
I don’t need a woman to be comfortable,
as I would be, if I had one, hereof.
My place mightn’t be head of the table,

Keep my right shoulder down relaxed, good
to go—I stumble upon his artifact,
a life of madness I forego, as I should,
this homosexual, dear is packed,

ready to emulate the woman in me.
Perhaps, in the past, to speak of such things
would offend beyond reason, so, free,
as I might be, to love Him, king of Kings,

Traveling the hypersphere, beyond what I, as a 4D mortal, can visualize—but real, nonetheless. I make my way on hallowed ground, vast distances in the nick of time, connected, as I am, by His design, a dimension that joins disparate regions.

What universe is this that I, now, see?
I’m about twenty-five, my brain having
fully formed, adjunct, now, to this body,
sustaining perfection, the light we bring,

when, as time travelers, we arrive at
our destination, determined to change
the future. The night sky, subject to that
which I conceive, is familiar, not strange,

O wise one, pacing myself, second by
second, throughout the day, having crash
landed, often enough, from the line I fly,
into the afternoon, bored silly, a splash

of listening juice, up to the brim, to
ruin everything, in the end. Trying
my best, always, not to wind up, through,
as I might be, with the marathon I’d sing,

Here goes the ticking of my heart—mindful of it, I use my time wisely, and efficiently, even when the beat is an unconscious one, the structure that remains after making a deliberate effort.