Eulogy
We were all a little in love with him. He was
a little in love with himself. That sublime
self-centeredness of the true artist. Which didn't
change the fact that he was a selfish prick
and a compulsive masturbator in the figurative
and probably the literal sense. But he was beautiful.
So you couldn't blame him for it. And you couldn't
look at him and you couldn't stop looking at him,
as though beauty were a kind of deformity--
you looked then looked away, then looked some more.
As though your eye were the fly, beauty the open
sore. It was like an affliction. His affliction, and yours.
Yours because it hurt, he was that beautiful. His
because as it faded, I think he finally began to live.
We were all a little in love with him. He was
a little in love with himself. That sublime
self-centeredness of the true artist. Which didn't
change the fact that he was a selfish prick
and a compulsive masturbator in the figurative
and probably the literal sense. But he was beautiful.
So you couldn't blame him for it. And you couldn't
look at him and you couldn't stop looking at him,
as though beauty were a kind of deformity--
you looked then looked away, then looked some more.
As though your eye were the fly, beauty the open
sore. It was like an affliction. His affliction, and yours.
Yours because it hurt, he was that beautiful. His
because as it faded, I think he finally began to live.
Dear Truth
I do not love you.
I am running away
with my beloved
illusions. The sweet
nothings. Nothing
is what it seems.
I love what seems.
I am crazy in love with
the painfully obvious
transparent surface.
I am simply hungry.
You keep the house
and everything in it.
I am taking the dog.
And the windows.
I do not love you.
I am running away
with my beloved
illusions. The sweet
nothings. Nothing
is what it seems.
I love what seems.
I am crazy in love with
the painfully obvious
transparent surface.
I am simply hungry.
You keep the house
and everything in it.
I am taking the dog.
And the windows.
