On the one hand:
Carpe diem and
Court Fortuna—
We all know whom she favors
On the other hand:
Settle your dust
Then act when
The time is ripe.
I carpe-ed the diem
And pushed
Her away.
Should I have waited
Until there were
No doubts?
(There are always doubts.)
If Lao-tse met Caesar on the field of honor,
Which would prevail,
The exile or
The man who would be king?
Of course, love isn’t honor,
Not that kind of honor,
Because love is not for those
Unable to suffer even
An imagined slight,
Because love is only for those
Brave enough to give
The benefit of a doubt,
Because love isn’t a duel
It’s not that silly.
Love is a dance.
On the one hand:
Take the Nutcracker.
Who doesn’t love
The Nutcracker?
I have at least one thing in common with Tchaikovsky.
I fucking hate the fucking Nutcracker,
An insipid story,
Stilted choreography,
And a saccharine score
Even the composer
Couldn’t stomach.
On the other hand:
Merce Cunningham once said that
He wanted his dancers to move
As if under no compulsion,
Which I took to mean that
The hand of the choreographer
Should not be in evidence,
Which I take to mean that
The movements of the dance are to arise
From the dancers themselves,
Which I take to mean not that
There is no compulsion,
But that the compulsion
Comes from deeper down than
The husk of ritual.
This is how the dance is danced:
Unadorned,
Unaffected,
Unbidden.
Awkward and odd,
If you have expectations;
Fascinating,
If you don’t.
Terrifying,
If you’re a coward;
Thrilling,
If you’re not.
On the one hand… shall we dance?
