Happiness means giving up.
I tell you that, I!—professional supplicant!
Who has bowed before so many testaments.
How else could be live under a tyrant two hundred year old?
A ruddy gold scepter of media, black magic marauder
spraying pesticide and other perilous clouds.
A disease spread through osmosis while the TV is on?
Breaking our hearts in order to preserve our personalities.
Men drowned in their weakness, women in their imperfection,
and specters of shoulds haunting the obedient.
Or perhaps it’s an illusion—of progress and improvement
the curve of the circle too slight to perceive. (Don’t laugh! It’s a trap!)
and like the trap of drunkenness
where everyone sings and then regrets, then come round the bar again
we try and try again, every rule we follow unsung, achievement we claim, unimportant, but so necessary, cling to it, so inhumanly difficult, so disappointing!
How then can we cope with that?
Giving up is our rescue.
I tell you that – I, Beleaguered the Youthful, (and I, for one, your insolent servant, Walton, Gwen) Giving up is our only chance.