hows it going with
your new man?
we're in the honeymoon phase.
why aren't you writing more about it?
he never leaves me alone long enough.
well, dish, sweetheart...
seriously i don't think i can.
why not?
he wants to be in my poems.
that's never stopped you before
and i think i've learned my lesson
why so cryptic?
that's the lesson
please, explain! expound. you built a ouvre on simple reality. diaryism. give me some of that.
i'm a superstitious person. my gods are sadistic, malicious ironists. his are, as well, though he doesn't like to pay them homage. we are living in a musical that the gods are writing, we both know it but don't talk too much about it. i have an inkling that the irony will evince when we admit that we know there's a big black bag waiting for the body of our relationship. it has a smiley face on the outside and it's located somewhere in the great northwest. so yeah, i keep that black bag between me and belief.
okaaay, that was contradictory.
so you understand my problem...
not really.
listen, this is how we met.
jupiter and venus dance
in the early spring sky.
i pull into the end of the street
where i stood up in your rabbit
convertible, pulled
my panties down.
stepped over to the driver's
side. you call, the conversation
is about computer security
linux vs. windows
the trajectory of logarithms.
i watch the planets, alone
in the dark, dissapointed
you aren't here to share it.
go stand outside
i command, look to the west can you
see them dancing?
you can. i'm so weary
i tell you
of the game. i'm giving up
on love, this very minute
it's never gonna happen. i'm done
with the love game, gonna play
the dating game now.
the planets turn into
eyes of a dragon whose tail
encircles the earth
and rattles moonrise behind me.
at home i put an ad on craigslist
filter through ten replies. poor response
for a friday nite but it's late
and i'm not peddling sex even though
nine of ten responsdees believe i am.
but not you. politely, you suggest
a different day. is is really too late?
i answer. flirt with two other men
wanting . hot, anonymous alohas.
but you want to play my conversation game.
we bring our balls to applebee's
and close the place down.
a hug and kiss, a scorpion's sting
goodnite. i fall in love
with the idea of us
in less than four hours.
the god's titter. this one's gonna be
like a long delayed orgasm
and the torture begins...
so, the new guy is a ....
liar.
what?
a deceiver, a dog, a man.
i don't understand
i want to think he's perfect
the omens are good. i gave up on love
seriously, i had killed hope
and they resurrected it
that very night.
fuckers
what are they gonna do to me now?
but you seem so calm and happy these days. why do you believe that?
because he's not perfect. i merely make him so.
perfection would never wane. this will, won't
it now?. since i am
resigned to the mortality of love,
it's sacred when he helps
move my daughter to another city
so she can start her life, so we can
be peaceful with each other, i let him
paint over the crayon
drawings on my kitchen wall
with leftover paint,
we found in the shed
and mixed together
to make mint. because he wants to help
because it makes me feel good
because all the things lacking
are the flavor of what we add
when the vibe is positive despite
the gods intent. and we laugh
and we smile and we stroke
skin to skin, blending into sugar water
that gods will spike with vodka
when their real party begins.
