What We Want

We want, with all our hearts, to believe.
We want to have faith in bliss, and rapture,
and ecstasy. All we really know for sure, if
we actually know anything, is dysfunction,
maladjustment of ideals, and endless unease.
We would relish the day we might wake up
to find no one had ever sold out, that all
the people who made us laugh when we
were kids still did, that all the fleeting moments
which brought tears to our eyes once still
truly made us weep, in deep and reverberating
sobs of mortal contentedness. We'd like it
very much if it turned out our fashion was
hot, our attitudes and aims were virtuous,
and our pet peeves were only natural. All
we really want is a normal life, a wife, kids,
a yard to mow. Or rather, no we don't; that's
a flaming lie, a false utterance the Devil forced
us to exhale. The truth is we've always felt
we should be having more fun than we are
as misfits, as impeccably dressed wanderers
in a leper colony, as sanctified jesters. Turns out
the life of a clown is interminably sorrowful,
everyone laughing at your expense, no one
willing to step out of line for your sake. Ever.
We want this and we want that but most
of all we want to know: what difference does
it make? No one ever listens to us and even
if they did, you just can't get a thing done right
unless you do it yourself. We're dying
to find out if that predicament will ever change.
We're waiting to be firmly planted in sublime
and libidinous knowledge of some other soul,
nearly any other soul. We don't crave to be
understood. We'd be perfectly happy if
the world kept misunderstanding us because,
frankly, we don't understand ourselves clearly
anyway. What's there to understand? Sacks
of flesh with occasional needs to eat and piss.
Living ghosts inhabiting the skeletons of our own
defeated dreams. Comically painted puppets
powered by ventriloquism. Not so hard
to figure, really, so quit asking. All we really
want is a good night's sleep, so be sure
to turn out the light when you leave.

(2007)