I go for what hurts most and means less first
because I don’t give myself more credit than
that. This is the whole reason I fell for that
superficial glare. But then I layer back over
what the jukebox played tonight, what Will said
about the Symposium as he poured us all another
round on the house, I hear this: Life is art is us
and at it’s expanse, we fall to our knees. Apollo needs
Dionysus. Eros exists because art exists and we exist
in it. Fire. Water. Sex is real. Hunting is real. Shoot it
in the head so as not to fuck up the meat. We are afraid
of death but the Greeks, they knew exactly how to
philosophize on modern love. And turns out the
me that I know and love, she would never be
interested in anything less. And though this poem
is less than those songs on the jukebox and that
blessed levitation I experienced in a discussion
on wine and wheels, so smooth makes so much
sense now. For a minute there, I lost myself, no
matter how it felt it was lesser. It was nothing
more than beach glass. And tonight I realize
how real I was before I entertained a second
rate journalist and a sparkling cloud of noxious
gas. Oh Jesus, what took you so long, boys? I
was nearly on the ground. I was barely seeing
double till that lovely dichotomy showed itself
Shove me into the sun and then shatter me so
my slivers bed themselves deep into other plans,
present tense: Show me again what we feel when
we don’t focus on our audience– when our finger-
prints are heavy, deep, dark. I’d forgotten how
to see with faceted eyes. I’ve been sure I know
where beauty lies but I don’t. And I did once
so teach me again. Nothing’s gonna stop me
from floating now I can’t survive without
this thought: It was not. It was not.
