When you’re afflicted with Constructivitis
which allergically resists the imposition of all
rational consistency – geometric order, balance,
pleasing planes, proportion, clarity and color –
and instead enlists as many scraps, misshapen
flakes and bits as it can suck off poisons like
formaldehyde, asbestos, paint and pipes with lead –
oh, the dolor of the hopelessly substandard heart
of darkness in the cheap and badly bred! – you’d
almost think you’d welcome self-destructive entropy:
rotting, rusting, ultimately deconstructing into
piles of toxic glops and fuzz the way detritus does.
But when you see a breeze-borne random posse
of yourself drift by (which I just now espied) –
say, ten blue moldy blips you last felt crusting on
your lips – you want to cry. ‘There go I,’ you sigh.