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Candid Pessimist

tell me, how does one see past
the incumbent colossus of dread
reflected on the lens of the camera,
blackened with remembrance of the present,
its thick and deceitful frame

tell me, how does one carry one’s body from a distance,
my psyche scurrying ghostlike on
concrete pavements in remission:
I cannot hold hands with the world
for I come hand in hand with myself

shall I set a timer and pose for a candid shot
after reality’s bus has departed according to google maps
after the natural world’s been diagramed by
ulterior motives and cruel intentions and
predispositions and flanderizations

a no-win condition: there’s nothing to the world sometimes;
not even pain; just a blur: a thumb blocking the picture;
a shadow in the way of the projector
no perspective for the promising poets
or even unposed photographs for posterity

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