I worship at the church of the Good Enough--
--with a body, a mind, a self like this,
It's the only one that'll take you.
Others may trumpet their welcome,
But lie atop stairs upon stairs that cannot be ascended
While bearing the burden that you carry.
The Perfect is the enemy of the Good, they say,
And so we take refuge here,
For in so many Perfections, we lie broken and bleeding
Outside the white picket fence of Paradise--
--and for this, we are told,
We cannot--will not--will never be Good.
Our own fences are ramshackle things,
All barbed wire and walking-sticks,
And we must find our own lacerated way through the strands
Of desperation.
Survival does not make for grand architecture.
"Almost" is only Good enough, they say,
In horseshoes, hand grenades, and love affairs.
Let these, then, be our instruments of self-defense,
Our weapons in this war to save our souls, ourselves:
Luck, revolution, and each other.