My theories of life are so radical,
I’m forced to live to validate them
(and I was hoping to be dead by Wednesday,
Saturday at the latest, because to be radical is
to feel old and exhausted periodically, and
I’d be in good company breaking bread
with the dead, sharing accommodation
with those witnesses to beauty and trash
and so much pain
you’d think it was good for the soul,
not a slow wasting of virtuous goals).
I have to live to prove
it’s worthwhile to love
plain, ugly, improbable things,
impossible things,
and always to follow the rainbow
backwards from the crock of gold
to the empty field,
to aspire to a friendless death
in cavernous old age,
lying on my back on a pavement,
contemplating imaginary stars
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