Shattered—like an ill man of
strict veracity and measures;
like an illness before recovery;
like relentless, anxious worry

Like TV sketches in which the cups, we
note, they drink from empty cups
How glorious to eat too much and
fall into a peaceful, ominous sleep

My nights are savage—and you,
Gramps, were your nights savage too?
It’s an indirect view of planets far away,
lifeless planets, their pock-marked moons

Bodily failures, addictions—
She shouldn’t have to suffer this way
Attention is love some say and ice,
as any bartender knows, floats

Paris imagined isn’t as fine as
the actual Paris— “The starry life
above us, the moral life within us”
Reason rages to tragic like

Nietzsche’s loathsome philosophy of power
(abused by the later-day Nazis and fascists),
a fiery response to Christianity’s cruelties
(even today, sadistic nuns, pedophile priests)

You can’t possibly list all your beliefs
in some rash stretch for better measures
Science is about survival in experience
It neither proves nor approves us

Being human is chronic
Our progress comes from conflicts—
Conflicts demand diversity and you
do worry, harden and exhaust me

No matter what we like there’s
always sacrifice
Nothing’s so hard as to not
deceive ourselves about that

When she goes to her special
place she can’t be reached
“Something there that was my own
is given away or taken from me”

We don’t own what we make
Savage nights full and plain—
They drink their nothing in a pretense
of cups and Gramps watched a lot of TV



-September 22, 2018-