John Fenlon Hogan 

 

     

 

     I Became to Myself a Region of Desolation 

 

 

And in what is commonly referred to as the purgatory

            of loving you, the satiety of your love is insatiable.

 

If only someone could have imposed restraint upon my disorder.

 

If only the conditional could matter a little more, as in

            the practicality that tops your daily to-do list.

 

When I figure my love as an export, and yours as an import,

            I am the greatest mercantile of the 21st Century.

 

Mercantile J Ho they call me, and my fleet weathers

            any storm, even when I’m the storm intent on sinking it.

 

My fleet does not exceed the numberless stars

but is numberless nonetheless.

 

Even now, I am ashamed not to be ashamed, and my shamelessness

            has begun to think for itself.

 

At this juncture, I would like to insert something sacred

            as a means of salvation—say tabernacle—but all I can muster

 

is a gilded box which holds an abyss inside itself.

 

My penchant for theories necessitates the question: does the one

at the bottom of the abyss know he’s reached the bottom

 

of the infinite? When one reaches for the opposite of what

one reaches for, has he attained it?

 

Muse. Anti-muse. What’s the difference.

 

The ancillary sciences claim one in 10 Americans is depressed.

 

My take on it is we’re onto something.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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