They exist outside the channels of my imagination.
When, in composition, I welcome dream’s uncertainty and surprise,
the soft, dream-like light of the wan projector’s eyes,
(how did you turn up in my dream? where were you before?)
I’m tortured by the very understanding the dream lacks
which teases me into understanding more—
first reality I reject, then fantasy tires—
which dream is the dream the dreamer desires?
I’m safe here from all ideology and argument;
in the dream, all argument and gossip is me;
my ego, that turns high sabotage into the quaintest age of poetry,
now wakes up, and of course there they are;
they will analyze my poem—
they are the enemy, just by being who they are,
mysterious and unknown.
They always make me doubt myself;
they are now discussing game theory
and they make it clear it is impossible to define the word, “game,”
which expands its meaning constantly.
Without trying, they always get the best of me.
You don’t like them either? Then we are One.
But unfortunately they are One. This won’t work.
They convince you I’m a jerk.
I take comfort in refuting them at last; I finally define the word game
to my splendid satisfaction. I achieve satisfaction.
A game is whatever you lost that you could have won.
Which mortal wins in life? None.
In the end, none of us win. Not even poems. This doesn’t want to be one.