Tuesday, January 14, 2025

CONFESSIONAL

If at bottom,
I am made 
of microscopic gods—

of quantum crowds 
who stormed this 
Olympus, 

whose courage 
each day gives new birth
to my prowess 

and whose truth
is the grandeur of familial 
resemblance—

wherefore this need 
to equivocate,
to cling—

to come clean 
on an incommensurate swarm 
of behaviors—

to get (and stay) up close 
to the screen
and just scream?