Hooked on believing I harbor no addictions,
I circle the perimeter of consolation.
I smoked for years,
but I stayed quit for years too,
returned and stopped again.
lurching from bouts of drinking
to sobriety and back may sound obsessive.
But absolution bears no compulsion
nor is it addiction.
Or is it?
I cop to compulsions,
fleeting ones like finishing things,
completing what I started,
books, courses, paths, dinner plans,
stuff like that.
I used to obey rules for the hell of it,
something compelling and lovely in the rule,
the principle and the law emitting a magic that moved me.
Until I lost the lust for it,
cooled on the perfection and rigidity of the line,
the truth of the right angle.
Balancing on the nuance of tightropes flashed a softer luminosity of right.
the lapping years ate those twists and flavors forward to calibration.
I leap less,
wheeze disbelief in equations like cause and effect,
rules too tight
patterns as solutions,
not any more,
the insecurity submerged,
moored to the mystery of ignorance.
Yet the words
pour me over the rocks and smoke me
flaming swells of urgency
gnaw it off the bone
and bloody ears of vein-hydrant flood quelling.
The irresistible line draws me
circumscribed and subsumed complete.