The Age of Theory

In these binary years I suppose the greatest thing You could say about someone  Is that you don’t know Where they stand; You might think you do But you could be wrong. And so this is a note In praise Of ambiguity. *** Alas, This is also A notice Of some personal alarm. I have been thinking  These past few days Of granting my sister, Who views me as an albatross  Except when she doesn’t, What she has suggested Quite strongly  In the past, What she so fondly desires Which is to make An informal exit From the life Of the most important person  In my life. Which is to say My niece. *** One year ago Yesterday I saw her in person For the last time. This is pandemic time And so time is relative For everyone  But I take this one personally. Five years and six months ago She was born. Five years and four months ago I spent my first week with her. Five years and three months ago I spent two months watching her all day. Four years and four months ago I began watching ...

Maybe this is what makes it possible to survive, But I guess everyone thinks their story Is either victory or tragedy, And that if only more people knew theirs It would somehow make a difference. It is my personal theory, Anyway, And maybe it’s so much wish-fulfillment,  As history shows Even those history remembers Are so hard to really know. So make of it What you will.

Some of the best stories  Are those no one will ever know.

The way they win Is to make you  Defeat yourself. I don’t know how they do it But it’s pretty effective, That sleight of hand That makes it impossible  To exist comfortably  In a world That rejects  Everything about you, Sees nothing In what means so much to you, What seems so profound, What could change the world, If anyone were at all ready for it. And of course they’re not, So you’re not  Anything. Just a hot mess, A messenger of woe. Mostly your own.

 The biggest rebels Are just visible enough To be ignored, Victims Of their own success.

The biggest problem Is that I always end up feeling Like some phony, A fictional creation  Of an overworked imagination.

It seemed like only yesterday But my troubles never went away And instead all I ever get Is to face the music. And I tell myself, This is not the way It’s supposed to be, That there doesn’t need to be This constant competition, This deep yearning To feel seen, To be acknowledged. And yet when push comes to shove I don’t believe it, And so this is how the world ends, Not with a bang, But a soft whimpering.

The only thing worse than lies Is the misapplication of facts.

Definitions by Liberals: Liberals = reasonable Conservatives = unreasonable  Definitions by Conservatives: Conservatives = reasonable Liberals = unreasonable 

This is an age In which the common experience  Is coming to an end. We are becoming splintered Away from unity At the apparent cost Of bringing everyone To the table. I wonder why It is necessary  For the one To be linked With the other. But it was decided And so it is. And so this is A fanfare To the common experience. Soon we will have Something separate  For everyone. Not just segments of population  But every one person. And language will splinter And... So this is a fanfare to Babel. That is exactly what this is, A tower built back up And brought back down Not by the hand of a capricious god But by ordinary people Thinking themselves gods In their great benevolence  Bringing about destruction  By order of the common good. The common man, The common experience, The common good. Well, c’mon. But perhaps Things will be different  Next year.

For whatever reason I’ve had the phrase Symphony of Woe On the brain The past few days. I don’t think It’s just A 2020 thing But seems  As apropos  For this whole era, Which perhaps, Strangely, Least of all In history as we currently know it Deserves such an appellation. But Such is life.