Kenneth Anger
There’s something about darkness
in the daytime I can’t help but adore.
Let’s grab the matinee and a martini.
Let’s get as far away from the truth
as we can. Give me illusion and
imitation—magic like a wave-
length, or time. Is there such a thing
as a scandal? Let’s talk about art,
by which I mean gossip. Are we
ourselves, or just the perception
they’ve made us believe? You say
evil is another word for the material
glamour we love. I say we love
too carelessly. The dream I’ve been
dreaming is loud and technicolor,
has been appearing so often.
I pass through the door that leads
to desire, but wake before coming
back. Inside, the lights blur like
a freeway that stretches for miles.
Inside, there are bikes and black
leather—a gospel of chains and
cocaine and a queerer America.
You say the machine is a totem
we are driving quickly toward
death. I wrap my arms around
that biker’s waist, a little tighter—
feel the curve of every muscle
of every man I could not love.
Tell me, are we moving forward
or in reverse? I know somewhere,
there’s a reel and it’s spinning—
the imaginary motion-picture
of perfection. I want to relinquish
myself from the truth I’ve been
forced to accept. There’s a compass
pointing toward something inside me,
but I can’t seem to get there. And then,
suddenly, the fireworks. The pyrotechnics
of the dream I’ve been dreaming
all along. I want to make love
to a man and be free. You say
the past is more fascinating
than the present, and I used to
agree. But I’ve been learning
to embrace the abstract. Maybe
freedom, or something like it,
is just beneath the surface.
A dramatic ritual we perform
to invoke something bigger
than ourselves. Death, or the last
special effect. A glamour
not theirs, but our own.
D.T. O’Brien is a poet and editor from New York. His work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in American Literary Review, Boston Review, Foundry, Prelude, Public Pool, and Tinderbox Poetry Journal. You can find him at danieltobrien.com.