Happy is the child of hap – a hapless happenstance
engendered in the lap of luck. Fluctuating weather
of the soul that spins the thing of you and keeps
it in the bowl. Your luck is always good.
You’ve never not been happy.
Always good? you bray – stupefied too many ways,
you say, remotely to convey the full array of fact
that proves I’m full of crap. Never not been
happy? Always in a state of bliss?
Kiss my abyss.
To me it’s merely this. I imagine I’ve a choice: a voice
in granting all irregularities to coexist – peculiarities
to feed and interbreed. Which of course they
always and already do. I permit the fiction
to get underway that I have agency
in the maneuvering of me – soon to see to my abject
delight I don’t. And oh, the gorgeous fleet release
in knowing that I can’t and won’t be able
to direct a thing. Since things don’t
need direction or a pep-talk-
patting-on-the-back (nor penises instruction in erection,
come to that), inevitably awkwardly assembled
as they are by what the cosmic dice begat,
I’ve never not exactly been what I will
always be: a this and that.
Which hap’ly I acknowledge as the child I have fathered/
mothered/sired/suckled into hapless happenstance.
Randomly a wild desperado, mild model
of finesse and sappy mess. I am
a solitary family of happiness.