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Self-Portrait 1969

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 He's still young--; thirty, but looks younger--
or does he?.
.
.
In the eyes and cheeks, tonight, turning in the mirror, he saw his mother,-- puffy; angry; bewildered.
.
.
Many nights, now, when he stares there, he gets angry:-- something unfulfilled there, something dead to what he once thought he surely could be-- Now, just the glamour of habits.
.
.
Once, instead, he thought insight would remake him, he'd reach --what? The thrill, the exhilaration unravelling disaster, that seemed to teach necessary knowledge.
.
.
became just jargon.
Sick of being decent, he craves another crash.
What reaches him except disaster?

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