in praise of self-indulgence

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked

down sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious

looking at the full moon.

Allen Ginsburg, “A Supermarket in California”

I am thinking of you this morning.

Walt and Allen. And Toni. Mostly,

Toni. Walking along the lake.

Still. Fields gold from countless

rainless days. Eucalyptus leaves

and dry bark surround. I seek

safe. Under these familiar trees.

Alongside silence. I am trying

to map my way back. Yesterday

my friend asks, when is

self-compassion self-indulgence?

I ask, what’s wrong with

self-indulgence? Wasn’t Walt

self-indulgent? Wandering

through the woods, thinking

about—himself. And Allen?

Howl? What is that if not

self-indulgent pontification?

But Toni, different story for

her—she was the bad kind

of self-indulgent. The kind that

digs. And points. Makes people

feel itchy in their feet. And when

she was called difficult, she said,

now that’s something I relish.

Relish. It rolls in the mouth,

slips in between teeth. With

other beloveds—amanuensis,

solipsism. Ekphrastic. I feel

their shine. Like the sun turning

the morning sky—light. When

are you back? My friend

asks. I say soon, you can’t

put a stopwatch on the soul.

I turn the bend just as the morning

sun is cresting. And glowing--

soft, gold.