Eastward

At the fringes of midlife, gravity swaggers
back to love, my broken limbs awashed
with love stories hinting charlock,
my duffel still choked with conquests
and manuals on deception and white lies.



I asked absolution of everyone who loved me
--you have been gravely deceived.
I did it proficiently well, business-like
--we can only hope others should do as well.
I now return the cloaks I have worn for
disguise, promises I have thrown in every
turn, the veneer of pretense and happiness
for the upkeep of delusions--just the right
dose to keep me busy.



I now relinquish my story
and all my recollections of it.
Another affair claims me. Constancy
offers me yet another delusion
hopefully whence I can no longer
be awakened. Who else sees me
past my appearances, another body
riddled with betrayals and mistrusts?
I feed my confusion to the fire.
I wavered too often in the corners:
driving lost the eager mouths in place.
I devoured hopes in every transition,
scaring away objects of lust as well
as of piety. I reside in the slums of duty,
far from the prying of those held captive
in awe. This is the shadow I call home.
Away from stickers and names. The chatter
of guns and good manners forever
lost in translation.



The time has come. A valediction for
loves past and present. Red carpet
entrance for the nameless and for those
who cannot be spoken. A treacherous
sword still warm stuck in the marrow
of the departed. Forgotten.