“Desire’s raison d’être is not to realize its goal; to find satisfaction; but to reproduce itself as desire.” Slavoj Žižek
Stood before the lustrous temple,
ancient and marvelous Delphi
with its suspended columns and gilded façade,
built to be pondered upon from without by lusty eyes,
although we all know–even if only subconsciously–that it lies empty within.
Saw a stranger on the metro,
muscle-bound and square of jaw,
radiating that genetic superiority
you wish pulsed through your DNA,
arousing and shaming you.
Worked hard in school from the get-go,
consumed by the tyranny of ambition,
beholden to but one rule: win,
win, win money, fame, awards, portfolios, elections, positions,
win everything but daddy’s love, but a clear mind, a quiet heart;
you can win straight As, but not redemption.
Prayed to a God you don’t know,
perhaps a God you don’t even believe in,
a sanctified Other you lusted after,
like a stranger on the metro
for whose imperfection you made yourself a heathen;
a God who–for a price somewhere in between your
dignity and bravery–offers full salvation.
But you never had any faith to begin with.