Failed Visionary
I stared at you with lust, pity and loathing,
otherwise known as love:
projecting my fantasies on to your realities,
in the hope of spoiling
this hazy embodiment of desire
with pointless needs.
Another incarnation of immateriality
that becomes a necessity:
demanding some sort of release.
I marvel at my feelings,
but I don’t trust them.
I’m dazzled by her,
but I don’t trust her either.
I’m not sure that she even likes me.
Which is fine, I don’t like her much either.
Often, around the middle of a week day afternoon,
I find myself considering the connection
between sexual and creative energy.
Torn by futile lusts, I seek refuge
from the vagueness of the day
and the promise of endeavor
in reliable memories and fantasies
that spill, reliably, into sleep.
I want you to want to give me pleasure.
I want you to be satisfied by my satisfaction.
I am excited by the thought of your being excited by me.
Please understand that these feelings you inspire in me
are a tribute to your qualities.
There are no levees capable
of withstanding the torrents of distraction
that surge through my mind. Tender
resentments, useless trivia and tired lusts
are carried along like debris on a swollen river,
from which, very occasionally, a lucid thought
emerges – only to be sucked back down
into the sewage of pettiness and vanity.
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.
An esteemed critic weighs in with rapturously levelheaded appraisal of lavish Las Cienegas show. Huffington Post 12/10.
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.
There are no levees capable
of withstanding the torrents of distraction
that surge through my mind. Tender
resentments, useless trivia and tired lusts
are carried along like debris on a swollen river,
from which, very occasionally, a lucid thought
emerges, only to be sucked back down
into the sewage of pettiness and vanity.
