Contemplating Happiness While Listening to Janet Jackson
It’s all for you a sparked ember against the wayward cheek.
The middle of my chest aches in the evening like a great song,
like a wild vine placed through all this tempo, stretched across the soft
candle of thin breath. Me, being me, I leap forward at the sound of purposeful ecstasy.
I dream all the bubbles loose in some warm bath water surrounding by candles
maybe some other naked man—
I am contemplating what it means to light joy up, being aware of its complications:
like how sometimes the brain stops its flight.
I am contemplating the erasure of wounds, like how they are never erased.
What bruise is coming to the surface? How I like to rub the tender spot to feel aching.
The way joy goes it sparks, it ignites. The way love goes, it may follow after joy.
