How I Guess I’d Put It

No dogma anymore – no fog pretending to be clarity. No disparity

pushed off, or parity embraced because it’s parity. No answers

either. On the whole, I take a breather every time I can.

I muddle through on several bases, all of them to do with pleasure,

dangerous and almost always with a man. Freud’s despotic

eros fighting with its weapons of catastrophe: the measure

of us below and above: aggression and love and finicky me!

Who would think that bumbling dyad up except for – nobody.

But if my mind remains as fully unknown and alive as I’m thankful

it seems to me today, not patently exile-able and throwable-away

as once I guess I thought it had to be, in sweaty throes of fighting

foes that perfectly excited and ignited me, enacting a defense

against a secretly erosive harsh belief in sin. A silly belief in sin.

(There may be sin, but it ain’t what I’m in.) I muddle through,

it’s true, when I do not subscribe to creeds: I’ve the chance

that way of finding all the best delicious secrets in my needs.

Then I become reliable, and viable – no longer as exile-able

as once I guess I must have thought I was. I can be Casey

at the bat who when he feels a cosmic buzz will always hit the ball

and always win the ball game: The Shames versus the Testicles.

Sins Against the Fuzz. I love that I’m inanity. Vanity? I call it sanity.

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