T.C.

You thought maturity was strength disguised
watching amber walls.
You thought happiness was endless chatter.
You thought success entailed
your cult of personality over ingrained traditions,
money and charm were party favors,
Indian gifts,
bait.

And you knew the terrors of locked hotel rooms,
the swallowed withering abandons,
the seizures of pitiless doubts.

A fine congee perfected paternally,
honed by a mother’s misbegotten unconcern.
They never let you grow up.
We can hear the disaffected child in your voice,
pleading for the strange, the different,
the feeble and effeminate, the weak,
those detested derelicts of your youth.

“A writer of uncommon grace and sensitivity,”
the critics proclaimed when you finally debuted.
A revealed understanding of the lonely
stuck in the margins, so you made them believe
and you did not demure;
instead, you dazzled, delighted,
a magician’s enchantment,
the consummate host, the enabler,
a regal majordomo
hobnobbing with the hobbled rich,
waltzing with extreme wealth.

You asked these moneyed scalawags,
“What’s wrong, dear?”
“What can I do to make your lives better?”
The swans bowed their jeweled heads
and fluttered, the peacocks flared.

Worthy by way of envy, Truman Capote learned
the keeper of lofty secrets could only
topple affluent empires
after his own was sunk, lost, and woefully forgotten.

Advertisements

About Rumrazor

Just a malcontent surviving in Los Angeles, working the news, writing the poetry, making the films.
This entry was posted in My Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s