or, for those who shouldn’t meet their heroes
A poem.
i
don’t call myself a nice guy:
only that my attempts at evil
have always failed
and that i agree.
nor the sort of masochisms received
adoringly to cult applause –
to dance when no one’s watching
than to cross that four feet safely;
to go back to school in your forties only for
assaulting a cop while you were drinking
and the fact you were a child once
to be your legacy.
in life there’s always sightlines
unless you’re prone
to crawling,
or dead
and i’m sorry
but i shouldn’t be.
because when the full-service attendant at
the discount gas is miserable,
and weaponizes my detachment as their shining example?
that’s why
i look to most now
how one would browse a library’s media clearance:
only historical statisticians would
consider Coppola’s flops
but we all drank the wine
Robin Williams passed around
once.
//wd 10.12.2026
