Since there are treasures in this world
and joys,
others' solemn tones depress you,
apparent lack of interest.
And maybe there is a dark spirit
that hinders, fills you with apprehension.
You don't enjoy things; though often you do,
alone with them. The people you want most,
far away, never in a position
to see.
The humor and the work together
from the faithful parts of you;
how can they be held back?
Should they? The intricacies of self,
others, the world.
They are there.
Should there be no complexity? no art
or humor—no mercurial spirit?
Your solemn tones? They come of disappointment, that dark spirit
covering you like a cherub with a flaming sword,
endlessly questioning like a manic sphinx.
Anger, like pride, is strength
harnessed and expressed in passion.
Love is passion. When untamed,
wild like an animal is dangerous.
The trouble is, only another can tame it.
When a man, green from much living, approaches a woman
there is nothing more pathetic than a serious look
of love in uncertain eyes.
But she is wonderful,
more vibrant and expressive than raging spring
pouncing like a wolverine on freshly hatched summer.
The enthusiasm is jarring, it couldn't possibly be real.
Is it her professional, her public voice?
When has a woman without pockets ever been so happy to see me?
Her white and brown dress throwing her thighs into the very heart of the matter.
She walks like a secret revealed to God.
But she's like that with everybody.
So nice to've seen me,
she'd love to see me again,
so grateful there for everybody,
she clutches her hands pressed glowingly to her breast.
Every contact with her, I die inside,
a dark night of the soul questioning
whether my life has ever had any meaning,
then being reborn at a drawing-board,
my former self consumed by maggots,
a few ants already biting at my toes.
I must believe there is more humor in painful love
than in all the happy kiddings around in the world.
For as they lower you down into the ground
with their somber words and settled looks, the joke's on them.
Being in love is like dying and sticking around knowing you're dead.
A daring derring-do, and nobody cares.
If anything they're offended.
In all, the treasures of this world are guarded
by banal circumstance,
it's not your fault you were born to death, or born a fool,
with a dark spirit always there to remind you.
Memento mori folly fool-you.
But damned if she doesn't look good in that dress.

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