I mean, in a sense:
I took things out of the closet, and I am never putting them back.
Like just how much of my poetry wants to attack
my own sense of loss, and loneliness, and despair:
I have made sure that it will never be fair to say that I lack
any sense of decorum, or hope, or impending repair
of what is broken in this country,
because I will never just sit back
and allow people to go through my wardrobe —
Why would anyone?
Why would you let them take over the sun
and the moon and the stars inside?
Why would you like them devour and divide
Everything that has tried
to shine? To burn with the fire of a hundred thousand lives
that you have yet to live?
So take it all off.
Empty out all the drawers.
And make sure that your Albatross Papers all have a place to sit.
If you really care about this country,
you honestly quite often have to say
fuck it!
to your professional image,
(and I don't mean mine.
The Ministry of Education didn't even give me time
to set up one, before it was enshrined
that because (as I only as of yesterday now finally understand)
a certain supervisor wanted to develop a secret gay relationship with me behind
everyone's eyes, and thought that I understand what is covert, what is hard to find —)
For goodness' sake, people,
how many freaking times have I said:
trying to say things to me indirectly is like
well, writing poetry ---
and I am very, very poor at understanding
implicatures, and anything implied
that has to do with dishonesty, and lying,
and having no values:
you kept quietly asking me to get back in the cupboard,
and I'm like, duh, of course I will refuse.
Not just on grounds of principle, and my own right to choose
who I am:
but because for the last bloody time, it is very hard for me to feel scared
if you keep your fears in the basement,
and then tell me:
do as I do.
Look at the cameras!
Yeah, okay.
I look at my cameras,
and in my own closets and basements, I always see
absolutely nothing there.
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