Failed Visionary, Reluctant Icon
For years on end I have been sitting here,
impatiently awaiting potency: some explosive revelatory surge
that will carry me away and permit no looking back.
But this moment of deliverance has not arrived,
and I have done nothing to hasten it.
Perhaps it doesn’t matter.
Perhaps I wasn’t meant to do anything.
In which case, I have succeeded admirably.
It is pointless to have reached this point:
this summit of finely seasoned staleness.
The callow negativism of youth matured to a dubious vintage,
with a voluptuous bouquet of regret
and a lingering aftertaste of self-disgust.
We lie side by side, basking in the warm glow
Of an attraction tempered by considerations
Of age and failure. The window of opportunity narrows
As irresolution asserts itself. Perhaps you would be offended,
Puzzled and disgusted by such an intrusion.
It might be asking too much of anybody:
To stanch this thirst, no longer sweet,
And dwindling into hesitation.
Queasiness, apathy and doom
spread over the sweetness… fear
of the stagnation and sorrow
that will have to seep out, fresh
from the source, all that death,
dirt and hurt: better for it to be absorbed
than apprehended, but who could withstand
such a force? A rallying call to weakness,
better leave it hanging. But dread is soon replaced
by regret, indifference by longing.
Standard Hotel, West Hollywood. Valentine’s Night, Feb 14th. Complimentary wine served between 7 and 8pm. Readings by Ezrha Jean Black, Zak Smith, Sophie Sills and John Tottenham at 8pm.
