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-

te-

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

old.

 

 

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

am

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

algorithmic intent, and analytical

sentiment, and in this it’s clear that

Einstein

remains your genius of

relative election, but my pretension is simply

another: Newton gives me

an illusion of being –

and seeing this illusion, a

mi-

[r-

{age-

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

pretension,

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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