Don’t talk to me…

Don’t talk to me of love, liar
your desperate, hateful, lies about love
A friend of mine, though much alone,
is rarely, almost never, lonely
He lacks a gene for “loneliness”
What if he breeds?
An acquaintance, a French teacher,
finds no task too dry, tedious, or dull
She lacks a gene for “boredom”
What if she breeds?
If they breed together their offspring may happily—
Don’t talk to me of love, you bitch, you liar—
never, or rarely ever, suffer
the hurts of loneliness, the heaviness of boredom
I go to the prison to visit him
But before I can they make me change my pants
You can’t wear khaki pants to prison visits
That’s what prisoners wear, it’s forbidden
What if I’m old, sick, alone and have no home?
Where will I go?
Wholly unreliable, regardless of character
and rights of others,
incapable of discrimination and jealous
to do something overwrought, dangerous and sensational
A completely despicable leader, yet heartily admired,
untrustworthy, weak, vicious
When things go bad they really go bad and
they go bad fast
On that day it was sunny
so I rode my bicycle
No, on that day it rained so I couldn’t ride it
No, on that day it was sunny, but
I didn’t feel like it so
I didn’t ride my bicycle
What an impudent dash it was past the trees
With his bad eyes the world began to shimmer
and spin in the distance
He would judge where he was by other means
not all of them visual or fall in wet grass
He would reach for those mountains alive
with an outstretched hand, so close
did they seem

The heart of the dog-fish cut from its chamber
continues to beat on the boat deck
Not for long—violent emotion,
gentle release—not for long
Fields thick with the dead
Torn and discolored bodies swell in rank
humidity, turn black in the sun, many look upward
their dead eyes open to brute light
We fought in wet grass, we bled...
My advice— give up this absurd fascination
with dank, bloated corpses—
We will, without mercy, kill
enemy snipers wherever we find them—
Study viruses instead

Don’t bore me with talk of your love again
or even simple human relationships
She asks, “Do you know who I am?”
“I think so, you may be my wife” he said
Her hurts were no less heavy or sharp
when imaginary
There are no human relationships, not really
We merely compare notes
Purple and copper stained hair, sweet legs
a world weary expression soon to be earned
Those in love are ill and must be forgiven
So this is what it was like, prehistory—
When they met again they’d engage in rudimentary, guarded courtesies—
everyone was cold, hungry, odious  and young



-August 20, 2011-