It had been at least three years since
I’d last waded the conversational depths of
maturity. Sure, I’m Mr. Old Soul,
but that just means:
I’ve accepted death –
I’ve disregarded ego –
I treat IT like an art display
on a one-museum tour.
You know,
when life lives you fast –
and backwards –
putting the ending where the
start should be –
you can’t walk
a straight line.
And IT can all seem very
strange
to you.
So in this room of straight
liners I sweat – my
cyanide cynicism
too flexed – muscle memory
of a true existentialist – and I
have to remember that
we’re all right and wrong
at the same time, all
of the time – and perhaps true
love is loving people’s
delusions – and I love
these people here
with me – drinking Mezcal
and talking about IT –
so maybe I should just
take a night off of
pretending to be
RIGHT about us
ALL BEING WRONG.