Monday, June 10, 2013

My Exquisite Artificiality

It's nice that in some essential ways we still track one another, though which of us notices is a fair question. Daisies in the front yard bring smiles to everyone. Fallen gutters, not so much. Well, life goes on, despite us.

Us? You and me? She and I? For what union do I most long, when night falls and everyone is asleep and prayer doesn't work one bit?

Your bible is my Hallmark card. You are still too close to the plastic Jesus movement for my exquisite artificiality. And yet. My heart bears the mark of you, not quite a scribble, nor yet quite art.

The mail comes back unanswered and so we assume she is finished talking. And so what? There is always a woman who wants a handsome poet to objectify her! The question was, were we doing something besides that?

Maybe not. I sit up for hours and listen to the radio, drinking the only whiskey I can afford these days, and entertaining the dead who are stubbornly silent as usual. Prose hums in what passes for my heart. We take it for granted, love, and then fall weeping when it betrays us as it must.

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