Tolstoy, Michener, Dreiser, Hollywood
—my mother
they all led me on with exuberant tales
of abnormal adventure.
As if surviving a war were
a necessity
to a life well lived
As if just one or two lovers were
a squandering
of youth
as if each love must make you feel
as if your heart were a cliff
collapsing into the sea
as if you must wake up each day
in an ancient world capitol
and adventure about the ruins all day
as if you lived in an opera
as if the world were a stage
and you must play a part—
a part far from the middle of the road,
your heart flying right
into a typhoon's belly.
That’s how my newborn nerves
got fired up with unquenchable longings
and how they were sunk, too,
because something always weathers
every gain away
making unhappy endings—
but the ending too must not be average—
there must be an orchestra, enemies,
a great speech to the masses
—something you can take a final b
ow for.
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