.
If I’d had a lover he would
not remain.
Queasily quickly, he’d
crash in my brain,
and leave my unusable
body behind.
How abashed I become when
I find
.
myself so un-atoned-for –
undeboned
and undrained, maligned
and disowned,
retaining what’s left like
a hat on my head,
papered with love notes,
handwritten and dead.
.
Still I am beautiful in some
odd ways.
All my indolent insolences
are arrays
of a neophyte painter’s
attempts at self-portraits,
fatigue in the Art
Students League: now a fortress
of family stories I have
second-hand:
my father and mother met
there, made a stand
to live out their
fragilities into the night
of their lives, into
which I arrived, a sight
to behold which no one
beheld, at any rate
not in the manner to
which I’d thought Fate
would supply. Even my name
is awry:
A cypher, a stooge, an irregular
regular Guy.
The problem, a small one:
imagining “I”
has much business with “me.”
They fly
in the face of whatever has
labeled them.
Notes I have written on Guy?
I’ve tabled them.
.
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