Once it was possible to think I was happy
if I had food, shelter, maybe a companion or two.
I lived then without comparisons, mirrors, ambition.
Television was the Lone Ranger, Dragnet,
roller derby. I thought all bad guys would be killed
or elbowed out of contention. Wars were over,
and sex was whatever happened to others
after a kiss and before a jump cut to morning.
I lived in town, then a city, then on the edge
near the exit signs where the choices were.
Experience, meaning what I could learn
from failure, was just a decision away.
I wanted to move into a future, acquiring friends
as I spoke of James Joyce, Harold and Maude,
my blind, unsuccessful date with Liza Minnelli.
I read the Bhagavad Gita for pleasure, or so I said,
dared to speak of enlightenment to the enlightened.
I joked I would have tried to become a Navy Seal
if I hadn’t known I’d fail the final test
of innocence and bravery. Couldn’t any or all of it
seem true? I wanted to believe such a conjured life
could make me happy, but my memory is too good.
A bad memory is the key to happiness.
I apologize for everything I haven’t done.