who said the only transgressions one truly regrets,

in the end, are the ones one forgets to commit?  (?)

Who would have guessed that here —

halfway through my life —

I find myself, having

accomplished nothing of which I dreamed

as a child. I still remember

smoking one cigarette after another

outside that bar with, Jesus,

what the hell was her name?  And there

in the shadows, I could feel her

wanting nothing more than to surrender —

that sensual gravity, two objects

in orbit — but I

I snuffed out my cigarette

and strolled to the car, knowing you and I

were different, way beyond that feral,

innate betrayal. Even now,

cataloguing the bodies of strangers seems

poor compensation for the sacrifice

of one’s honor.  But this is not

a requiem to youth, but

a eulogy for the man I never became.  Yes,

I will never be an Olympic

figure-skater, but still I imagined

my life to be archetypal — something more

than a modest salary — something noble, not just

a random collection of dissipating ions, but essential,

like clouds.  I never dreamed

I’d spend the weeks struggling

to get to the next week,

a defective slave to commerce.  If I

could go back and speak

to myself – that cocky little fuck –

the things I’d tell him. Of course, he’d

never listen.

He hated people like me.

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