extended appearance just as Self-Confidence
has finally and resolutely learned to subsist,
indeed thrive a bit, on its very own. Is there
a massage therapist in the house?
Name one higher purpose than Ego. Neither
another heart-blackening disappointment in
my One True Being nor the maudlin iteration
of my next crisis of faith will help me conjure
a retort to that one. Whatever Magick
one deigns to practice is to be used
strictly for implementing
the most current upgrade of
one’s paragon set of smoke and mirrors
built neatly upon the myth of selflessness.
(And oh so stealthily at that!)
But I digress. It is 9:20 on a brilliant
Saturday morning and maybe, just
maybe, I am rising from these most
recent depths.
And with what gravity!
I’ll exit this muck a sourpuss,
wipe the sewage off my boots
and ascend that imaginary plateau
(what a quick learn I am, too,
already hip to the sacred gospels
proving slope and altitude just a pair
of plucky post-coital legends) –
please be sure to watch carefully, now;
take as many notes as you must – because
I’ll do it all with as much ironic pleasure
as a well-burnished fart
presented gleefully adagio
at the butt-end of Thanksgiving Day.
