Wednesday, March 16, 2022

After "Bosch: S. Antonio" by R. Hugo

The saint sees the irredeemably sad
As happy beyond measure, for soon they
Will get there, whatever water-logged conclusion
That they were victims of themselves only.
The unrelenting hostility is a gift
Known in the breach and not the observance,
For it is not yours to suffer, though you do,
The giving of the fucks. The world can
Degenerate tonight, your life is worth
A pause of peace, perhaps a ruined world
Is a small price, compared to happiness.

Other's messes are yours to clean. Your toilet paper's
Stolen again. Rules are made, it seems, to be broken,
And the natural advice, freely given,
Is to make others feel the pain they've caused,
What's worse than doing nothing, the right thing
Most of the time. For this is heaven,
The floating away, the clear and empty air,
As hell is how you present yourself to others,
In a red vest, black mustache, your reason for being
Debatable, every claim negligible,
Every gesture of respect something to mock.

Thus the saint replays, like a wax 78,
The brilliance of the hate, how it flows into every
Pore of breath, making love a thing of worth,
A diamond drawn from hard, black earth.