I can’t explain why I played that game
Of Chicken against implacable adversaries
Going by gangster names like Odds, Change
And Chance. You can’t win at Chicken
Against a world that never blinks. You will die
Or you will blink and blink and blink and then
Die anyway. Maybe that last fact was why,
But neither can I explain why I fused
And blurred and generally made a mess
Of mixing up prose diaries, journal entries,
Semirandom amnesias, essays, and the lyric.
I did it. It was my way of doing it, a personal
Means to fail that I counted something
Of a success insofar as it wasn’t all typical
Of the ways we all failed and had to continue
To fail. A timid mind in a fragile body wanting
To dare the universe was bound to putter
Around tentatively and make a little mess
Where a great monster genius would have
Created an unholy testament to catastrophe.
Wait. Maybe. You think? Was I mad enough?
Could words heaped up to be tumbled have
Tilted over the lip of the abyss, disasterly?
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