Self-Portrait 1969

 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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