I mourn myself—I admit it—with a certain alarm.
No, I’m not purely good.
But at least I am myself purely:
As much the despot of systemic corruption
As the betrayed victim in strange, psychological country.
I allow myself to be wholly known
And then end up alone, like Eddie:
A gullet swallowing the tonnage of the world,
A chorus for my own tragedy,
A stolen catharsis rife
With borrowed claptrap to heal the masses.