The sheer sensuousness of returning an offense. The release. Then no place to go but back into ourselves where suddenly we're cool and numb. That node of anger, that galvanizer, gone. No excuse left to delay living our lives. Maybe only love is as personal. The singularity, the intense focus. Once, though, in existentialism's first grasp, I was content to believe that in time the wicked would hang themselves. Nothing we need do to them. I'd forgotten how hurt won't let philosophy be king, that hurt wears its own crown, wants to rid itself of itself. But so much vengeance is a quiet affair. Just vengeance and me, the cause elsewhere, perhaps in another city, enjoying himself, untroubled by my trouble with him. I've taken him to sleep with me where he's met his proper death. No mercy in that dark realm. And no satisfaction when I woke.
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Art by Alfred Kubin
Poem by Stephen Dunn
3 comments:
Awesome poem. I need to save that one.
No games, is such a Beautiful thought, like, let's just get to the good stuff & Enjoy each other, but, that's Unrealistic in this world, i guess with misunderstandings, suspicions, taking the bait, etc.
it's a shame.
it seems better to be surfacey & not really care, less problems, or maybe just be solo.
that drawing is Lovely.
Yep, Stephen Dunn is an awesome poet.
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