We’re tempted, always, to perform in role
fine-structured movie of our artist’s life.
Lost job, dead love, surgeon’s infecting knife
Damascus hammers that beat out our soul

to thin perfection. Every diary date
potentially a telling anecdote.
Love letters simple acheing passion wrote
quarried for epigrams. We celebrate

Wednesday’s migraine, Tuesday’s cassoulet
as myths of struggle. We are always on,
writing each moment down and when it’s gone
rewrite it and improve it. Lovers say

they hope to get the transcendental fuck
we write of, but are always out of luck.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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One Response to Heldenleben

  1. stevegreen says:

    Ah, the eternal quest for the transcendental fuck…

    Once again, another terrific poem, Roz.

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