a vote for the light

burned away in other people’s constant
I pull away the curtains,
aching for the gentle light.
it’s there, it’s there
I’m sure.

oh, the face of downwardness,
pulled down into the gluey darkness.
the bitter small sour mouths.
the self-pity, the self-immolation is
too much, all too much.
the faces in shadow,
the sliced creases of gloom.

there’s no courage, just the desire to
have something–admiration, fame,
money, any damn thing
as long as it comes easy.
as long as they don’t have to do
what’s needed.
and when they don’t get it they
become embittered and
they imagine that they have
been slighted, cheated,

then they concentrate upon
unhappiness, their last

and they’re good at that,
they are very good at that.
they have so much of that
they insist upon your having it

they bathe and splash in their
they splash it upon you or

it’s all they have.
it’s all they want.
it’s all they can be.

you must open the curtains
or the blinds
or the windows
to the gentle light,
it’s there in life
and even in death,
it’s there.

don’t let yourself become