admit it: you used to walk around thinking there had
to be a reason for things, for everything. that way
paranoia lies. not a science of syllables, the solitude
total, but the prophet’s lit lantern was what you wanted—
and what you got was “neon in daylight,” a pleasure
recommended by frank o’hara. those pleasures meant a lot to you,
you even thought you lived for them, until the first death
(a nervous uncle broke the news when you landed at kennedy)
and the first marriage (you stayed up all night and read
beyond the pleasure principle, a fair description
of your lovemaking). it seems that new myths are needed
and consumed all the time by folks like you. each erases the last,
producing tomorrow’s tabula rasa, after a night of dreams
in which the tigers of wrath become the tigers of repose.
peace, peace, mercutio, peace!
thou talk'st of nothing.
true, i talk of dreams,
which are the children of an idle brain,
begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
which is as thin of substance as the air
and more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
even now the frozen bosom of the north,
and, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,
turning his face to the dew-dropping south.