had a falling out with an old friend many years ago
and I can’t stand to even hear anything about her. Can’t
stand it. Drives me crazy. People say you must try
to transcend it all, let it go. I have to hear about
her fucking pilates classes, her irritating stock
portfolio gains. Why do they all torture
me with this shit? Can’t they see how sensitive
I am? It’s up to me to worry about the budget,
the contract deadlines, the flu-shot schedules,
the fucking mortgage amortization table,
but I’m supposed to deal with this crap too?
It’s too much for me. I don’t transcend. I give
in to temptation, and everything is a temptation.
Ice cream in the freezer, bottle of wine
under the sink, porn on the internet, cheap
mail-order drugs from Canada. The psychologist
calls and notes how happy she is in North Carolina.
The students arrive for class, full of a love
for learning. I could care less.
They are happy it’s been raining for days,
the drought finally over. But I liked the drought.
That’s the way I roll. I don’t fucking transcend.
I brood. I complain. I work myself into a state
of whatever the opposite of grace is. I don’t
fucking know anymore. The priest goes from room
to room in the hospital, offering safe passage. No one
can resist. Everyone gives in. But I don’t want to take
that ride. I want to stay stuck in this twisted
moment of my own passionate moral inferiority.
-- Terence Winch
from Vanitas (Spring 2012)