Pre[dict]{able}(e): “You don’t have to be right to be happy”


Am sitting in the darkened sitting-room;

fam about to get up;

the lights on the tree and around the TV splin-


ring the embracing silence: and I so wish

we’d married that day I begged

you, and that ring I now carried was

a sign of love eternal, burnished and

burning like flames no longer




And after a year of growing

and changing

and escaping

and asserting

and learning

and mastering, I am good.


Good as I never was.

Good as I was never allowed to be.

Good as I never allowed myself to be.

Because even where everything

I do is predictable and anticipated

and known and pre-seen, in a

Newtonian way of scientific inaccuracy

I demand and

require and

want and

need and


my choices: oh, and yes, you may be true in

algorithmic intent, and analytical

sentiment, and in this it’s clear that


remains your genius of

relative election, but my pretension is simply

another: Newton gives me

an illusion of being –

and seeing this illusion, a




ing]} of people and places

and sex and six and half a dozen

oozing of seconds and thirds

and threesomes

and gentle twosomes, and

some more

rough, and some quite lesser, and guess

whom I shall kiss the next –

and so my genius of such


mentioned here and there

and most somewheres,

will – for me – Newton be: for

hear me, you know you

don’t have to be right 

to be happy.


You just need to be happy.


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