The value of your voice...

It was a laugh at first –

like a thought, not seen coming –

“What if you died? What if you've died?”

It was easy to dismiss –

you, an abstract non-presence –

and I set it aside. I set it aside.

But then I took a nap –

in the warm, late day shadows –

And it grew to one scene, then another.

There were forklifts –

and palates, paint cans, rigid metal –

where you worked. Then a call from your mother.

“I got your number from her notebook –

she loved you you know. I hope you will

speak when we lay her body down.”

And I'd never tell them, or anyone –

when the last thing you'd done was ask me to leave,

the last thing I'd done was not be around

When you asked “can we talk?” –

that I didn't make you happy on the last day

I could have. That I left you alone,

And that that's where your heart was –

when you saw the shelf falling – when your shoulders

tensed, then went limp. {please... hear your phone.}

A river down the part in my hair...

{remembering Micah, a boy on the schoolyard—and a ring of onlookers, and paramedics}

The last                        time I died,

on the playground,               they'd said,

“Don't worry, little warrior, it's all in

your head.” - -- --- ---- ------

It sure was:   all the pavement,

the loose  stones and  dust

were  crumble-caked

into my  scalp...

“If you'd just

lift you're head,

we'll  support  you.”

Your support never ends.

I'd wanted to be netless,

surrounded by friends

and pulled wide by

g-forces, spinning

at my center.

And I did:

half a back-

flip (before

the ground

entered).

Poster-child...

{for my father - the misanthrope}

*It started as a typo

and ended as a war.

No one really knew

where the fight was

from or what it

would be

for.

- - - - - - - - - -

“I think it was over money.”

      Well, so is everything.

      “No – sometimes it's over principle.”

           That's a pot for funds-gathering.

    “I mean values, ethics – human rights.”

       That pitch they sell the consumer?

     “No – our mission there, our social goal.”

  I love your sense of humor.

                 “I hate you. And I hope

                       you know that if a

                       chance comes for

                                peace, you

                                won't see

                                        it.”

Son, nothing sells

tickets like songs

of PEACE; they're

sold on the airwaves

and business walls.

If it's not being

whispered (just

a rumble in

  the street)

…we don't

           need

                  it.

Little heart-shaped poem...

{"for JS, who likes me enough to work out this interaction..." - March 2014}

                      Love is like …

           Love           is               like?

    Carving out a trail for your motorbike,

   Tracing the steps       of an engine-check,

   Then trying to remember where     you left

   your keys.

      Love is not …

            Love                   is                           not?

Applause through a stadium,      a trophy caught;

Room-serviced sunsets and  “More here, please.”

Back to: love is …

      Love is?

A child for raising (

  First trying to   save    itself  and    breaking

     or spending every         collected       good

until its parents come:      guiding,  praising)

A child who becomes      more         aware

with every slowly    talked-out. teaching

that   it is     growing    now          and

ever breakably        in-the-making:

Heir to a long breath, riding on

old spirits (each a version of

   precious and amazing)

To be drawn  in  with

                gratitude

    and let out

with  care.

Meant

   to

be                                        full-forward

                 yet            balancing,

       strong-toed  while

  tremoring,

focused              and      reflective

while        continuously

reach

ing

.

He dived in the rocks...

I was running toward home.

The        trail's end was wet;      leaves smelled

                                                                like          book pages   and tea.

He dived into the rocks.

I swear:      those along the sidewalk,

                     poured into           a    cored      square.

Before I       could even                cross

onto the        breathy-wet   asphalt,

he vaulted    over     down-steps,

                      sprung the    hand rail,

      pond-hopped    the sidewalk,    and –

                                            landing        with buckshot flail –

                 began wildly                       imagining into

                                                       the rocks (not on top of, but into;

                                          burrowed through).

And he was

so completely there –    talking to or

                  saying what I       wouldn't dare to

                            assume – that I barely

          won over his eye contact:

at arm's reach,
  out  of
view.

Test day...

I found you down the driveway,

alone—by a taupe trash bin,

with a glowing phone.

You said you couldn't remember

their faces—just their eyes,

their generic races.

Were you with someone? “No I

wasn't, not then.” How many?

“Um. Three Asian men,

about five-foot six.” At midnight.
Where? “On campus, maybe?

If not, near there.”

How old are you? “I'm, um, nineteen.”

And they? “They beat me,

and went in between ...”

My legs went soft. I took you

into the hospital, recalled

your voice back then:

*

I was standing uniformed in a bright room,

walls bent with students; saw

you unpeeling a snack,

so I asked you. You smiled back, “One thing

you can do – always leave in group.”

Very good, I said; you're excused.

Chocolate thermometer...

I knew ahead of time

that you'd never forgive me,

but you had so many

and I wanted to know.

So I took all of your chocolate bars,

unwrapped them in a row

and put half of each

on a baking sheet,

writing down when a piece turned soft

and again when its skin shined wet,

then arranged and glued into a box

(smelling of coins and rocks) all the rest—

Side-by-side, rugged to sensitive, with

temperatures written above:

“82 (where it softens),

96 (where it melts).”

(call it wasteful

and a mess;

such is love).

Your skin is a syringe...

{After mishearing the lyric “I wish I could 

shake some sense into you and walk out the door...

but your skin is porcelain” by Better Than Ezra.}

I woke up in

an empty room,

smelled tailpipe

and your perfume

coming in from the

window, out from the

sheet – feeling cold on

my shoulders, warm on my feet.

“Your skin is a

syringe” I think,

trying to remember

if bronze or pink – it

was soft on your breasts

and hard on your spine.

I had plunged down your

throat; you had needled my mind.

Thank God, you

left some water by

that hot, tar-stained

glass. I nod to half a

bottle Jack “Hail Mary ...”
Some dew-beads on the window

hinge, my shoe-marks down the

side-wall shingles – your skin is a syringe.

Prick...

{After a modern adage: "If you met one asshole today, 

they were probably an asshole; 

if you met a hundred assholes today, you're the asshole."}

Whichever splinter

next crawls under –

in between my skin

and liquid tender –

from something large

and woody, aging;

something prick-thin,

roughly scraping …

Whichever splinter –

throbbing dirges,

raking my depths as

its tip emerges –

picked and pinched

at, slight and driven;

tissue-clouded,

red-wash hidden …

Whichever splinter,

bereft of nation,

slips through fascia …

if more quiet,

might have

stayed

in.

Popcorn movie...

{The worst movies and the worst relationships
sound very much the same: ill-thought-out.}

When I said I hated you,

A part of me died,

looking into your

unbelieving eyes;

A part of me shaped

like a rodent's wheel,

locked to the sidewall

of a looping reel:

A film too weak,

short, high-dramatic

(where I am the hero,

victim, and static,

Falling on an ever-sharp

sword of good intention

ricocheting off your mirrored

shield's sharp ascension

As you tell me I can

be condescending,

opaque, impermeable –

that, the film's ending).

Such a not worth re-watching

plot – but I had time to waste …

Maybe “I hate you” was meant

for the film, but said to your face.

And in our sequel, seeing

your clear eyes disbelieving,

I realized my first film was

historical fiction (a weaving

Of straw-men under word-

balloons, dolls in place of we,

who should have starred in

a careful, close-shot documentary):

What looked so real,

rendered by my deduction,

was probably mostly

constructed in post-production;

What sounded clean and

played so neatly one-sided

was patent fantasy, for

when is 'Right' clearly divided?

Not even here, where

a childish hero chiding

his seeming-foe notices, “Oh,

below her gnarl, there's love abiding.”

For she is a fool to stand me,

with all the long reels I waste.

And I am a fool, falling time and

again on her jagged eyed, puckering face.

ESSAY: In response to the Bill Nye / Ken Ham debate on whether the the creation story holds as a valid scientific theory...

{the debate video}

I just watched the Bill Nye / Ken Ham debate ... have to put in my 2-cents, as an advocate for mutually educational dialogs:

Somewhere in the last half-hour of the “evolution versus creation” debate¹, during the question-and-answer section (past the question "what would convince you to change your position?", to which Ken replies, in a word, "nothing" and Bill replies "supportive observable evidence") the question comes to Bill, "If evolution claims people are getting smarter, how do you explain acts of high human intelligence in the past?"

Bill responds by clarifying what is meant by "evolution," i.e., survival of the "fittest."

He explains that "fittest," in that semantic context, does not imply "those who can do the most push-ups or get the highest scores on standardized tests, but those who FIT IN {he interlinks his fingers} the best."

This, I think, was the one lesson of science that Bill fails to implement during the debate ... to actively help Christians understand how science furthers and affirms their values (love of the earth, of life, of one another; awe and respect for all natural creations). When Mr. Ham time-and-again meets Bill's sound observations with obstinate denial and a LACK of faith and understanding, Mr. Nye falls into the rhetorical trap of returning that volley: delicately implying that Christians' literal interpretations of Biblical historical accounts do not hold up to robust scientific rigor. Which, of course, is not their modus operandi; their methods and motives are not scientific and critical, but poetic and self-affirming.

Were I standing alongside Bill Nye on that stage, I would have emphasized after EVERY scientific re-framing of facts and reality that the essential CORE of Christian beliefs – humanitarian values, love and compassion; stewardship, appreciation and care for natural creations; faith in purpose, seeing a reason for life and nurturing/fulfilling that human intent – that those are affirmed and furthered by science:

* When you love something (a friend, a vocation, a field of knowledge) you learn about him/her/it so that you can serve it better, so that you can understand further how it works and how to help it along its own natural path. In this light, science can be seen by Christians as an expression of loving curiosity and concerned question-asking: How do things work? Am I making things worse or better? How can I grow, in who I am being and what I'm doing, so that this earth fares better where my hands and feet have touched it?

Had Mr. Nye made this point clear, I think, a few more of those Kentucky audience members might have gone home seeing Ken Ham's vision as lopsided – seeing his own explanations as fully right and final, with no possibility of mistake or error, while single-mindedly denying the validity of any evidence or the possibility of any reality that departed from his explanations – while Bill Nye's positions were open-armed and ready to develop and grow into an ever-greater understanding of God's {that great and all-encompassing mystery's} universe.

And, had those audience members perceived that distinction of characters, then they might have asked themselves—all said-and-done—who was acting like a kind, loving, and humble Christian. And the answer might well have been: “The scientist.”

– Josh Kuntzman

(5 February 2014)

*  *    *    *  *

1Official debate topic-question: “Is creation [of the universe by a sentient diety, God, as described in Christians' sacred religious text, the Holy Bible] a viable model of origins in today's modern scientific era?”

Somewhere in common...

{Pho-dog-raphy & framing: K. Hall}

Everything is a lie

in me; I like these pictures sparkly,

ringed by glassy beads,

all flashing spectrum-light

like diamonds:

is a lie

so

wrong,

or even a

lie, when what

makes me smile is

not a material bead,

but a private spark I see?

Everything—beauty,

purpose, good—is

a story, a vision,

a might-have-

been / could-

be that's

truly &

forward-

ly ly-

ing

in

m

e

.

Cheating on her...

I have a demon-parasite

who keeps me from my love;

I'm going to kill it (down, in the night),

then claw my way above.

It thinks it wants experience,

but really it wants to know

how deeply deep, and darkly dark,

this lonely mind can go.

Once, my heart found a second pulse

to build a stronghold with,

but couldn't pry its hearthstones

from a sensory abyss …

So yes, "chase a demon, climb

a cliff, rebuild my heaven" is daft.

But how did Sadness marry Joy?

Rolled down her cheeks and laughed.

Silent is love...

In this world, we are flowers: all praying to bloom –

Red when we're crushed down, closed in against dew.

So I know it seems off to say “I wouldn't mind dying

After living by you, rose.” But you're that satisfying.

Beyond all muddy torrents, after all wet critiques

That time wet my roots with (alone, closed, and weak),

Now I find myself softening – warm with light, exposed

All these veins, these soft layers, these slight chills for you, Rose.

Beneath blooms, all our stalks are thorned, shaded and hardened—

Just to preserve us for opening, for begging life's pardon

By loving, and then nothing (for there's nothing more right

Than to love: no word spoken, no fate, no wise light).

We are beauty atop violence: not meant to show the way;

Just to be, then to die: small and natural, in this day.

To flower, is to give—oh, what you share. I can't convey it:

No moan, sigh, nor whimper; no shout nor roar, can say it.

In this life, all things right feel like a pins: firm but faint,

Pricking quieter than wars, than all glories that earn saint-hoods

From tall stalks and shut blooms, who dream you with their words—

Because few have seen the heavens, but “Haven't you heard?”

Fame (villanelle)...

I wish being human were a sense I could savor

but when I step into light, with my fame in tow,

I see all the worst people on their best behavior.

Oh, just to earn a smile by my kindness, my labor,

My folly – instead of my conspicuous glow:

I wish being human were a sense I could savor.

To build a friend from nothing but a favorite flavor

Or a song, not “You were real on the late-night show.”

I meet all the worst people on their best behavior.

To approach from the back edge, say “hello” to her, then waver

In her gaze – but no: she fawns (I'm a poster in her studio).

I wish being human were a sense I could savor.

To be groaned at in a slow line, or ignored by a waiter,

Before – by my face, voice, or coat tails – they know

And scattle under the appliances of their best behavior.

To be found, and accepted, as charming (not a savior –

Just disarming enough to leave a raw patch when I go).

I wish being human were a sense I could savor.

But I only see people on their best behavior:

All the best people

on their worst

behavior;

All the worst

people

on their

best

behavior.

The missing line (unsaid Thank You's) ...

When the snow heats up,

then cracks under-boot,

like a crème brûlée

in the morning's huff,

I think of you

making me solid enough

to be broken.

So what is there left

in my wake but holes,

little bowls of air,

low breaths of cold?

And what can I do

(with those in my hands)

but whisper in/out to you

as a token?

Stop being so nice (how to) ...

She looks tired.

(Don't want to be a bother)

                       He feels soft.

                 (you're the best pillow ever …)

“How are you feeling?”

(so content – still, I want her)

                  “Mmm – just sleepy”

               (what a puppy – couch leather)

She sounds tired.

(so content – and I want her)

              He moves softly.

               (he's a puppy – couch leather)

“You're so pretty.”

(…I'll just kiss her – that's for taking)

          “Aw – you're sweet, pea.”

              (and he's always revving – braking)

She plays tired.

(…I'll just kiss her – that's for taking)

        He stares softly.

        (and he's always revving – braking)

“Take your top off. On the table.”

        “Oh – but what, now? Okay, like this,…”
(digging fingers, teeth, together)

              (what a wolf – broken tether)

Songerel (a synthesis) ...

Such a funny little thing, this life I

Keep inside me: dreams that make me sick at

Night and around-bend smells that guide me; a sky

Whose eddies conduct my mood (whether flat

Or roiled, I join in); fellow dancers with whom

(Whether trance-lambs or saints) I'm compelled

To toss my coin in; then the crash-bang-boom

Of a stumble, of an oxidized bell

coming down from the rafters—all shaded

and still—makes me leap from the doldrums of

Circadian half-pipes to laughter: hallowed

For its spirit, yet condemned like a drug

For its act—which makes farce of the holy
(The best in us reminds us we are lowly).

Are you religious?...

“Are you religious?”

Hm: let's see …

By first or second

meanings in the dictionary?

“Religious –

   Having or showing

   belief in and reverence for

  God or a deity.

*

1) Diety – A god or goddess.

     1) Divine – Sacred. Superhuman; godlike.

            1) God – A being conceived

as the perfect, omnipotent, omniscient

              originator and ruler

         of the universe.

The force, effect, or a manifestation

or aspect of this being.

A being of supernatural powers or attributes,

        believed in and worshiped by a people,

            especially a male deity

         thought to control some part of nature or reality.

An image of a supernatural being; an idol. ”

By 1st definitions—

where “being religious” means

anthropomorphically imposing human intentionality

onto all aspects of sentient and non-sentient reality—

      no: I am not religious.

*

               2) Diety – The essential nature or condition of being a god; divinity.

         2) Divine – Supremely good or beautiful; magnificent.

             Extremely pleasant; delightful. Heavenly; perfect.

2) God – One that is worshiped, idealized, or followed. ”

By 2nd definitions—

where “being religious” means

      believing in and revering

       the natural beings and happenings in this world,

     which are essentially good, beautiful, and

for fleeting moments pleasant and perfect;

     working to embody those ideals within my flesh,

      and appreciating their various expressions

       in a thousand other fleshes

     beyond my perception—

yes: I would say that I am.

Porchview...

silly, stupid,

Stumbling lovers –

hanging off of

one another,

walking up a ramp

… two smiling,

… … semi-standing,

… … … heft-beguiling

“Kids!! Could you please

stop clinging so much—is

your posture so tenuous?

D'you need crutches?”

“Old man! If we split up,” they chuckle,

“we could walk upright forever.

But we only seem to float

when we're tied up together.”

Empathy (sonnet)

Being away from you is like the space

Between my breaths. At first, It feels alright,

full of oxygen, fueled for a long-far flight;

But then that draw from my heart keeping pace

Leaves my diaphragm hard-pressed to rest in place;

So down it pulls, and against the suck I fight;

Lungs spasm, pulsing; red lines climb the white

Of my eyes, now on a purple-dark face.

Still, I have wind enough to laugh like

I own a secret well – some endless breeze.

And you'll think I possess some callous might,

Impervious to your pain, while I gape and wheeze.

“Oh, cruel God!,” you'll cry, “my tears to tongue!”

But I've drunk them not; I've breathed them in my lungs.

Being away...

It's not an easy truth to let in:

we can't see anything beyond the horizon;

can't know the color, shape, direction

of things that we can't put our eyes on.

Even the slowest, stillest things –

Like the tree I grew up under,

that caterpillars overtook, that fell

silk-wrapped, that cracked like thunder;

Even the purest, surest things –

Like the child who was meant to grow,

Who climbed that tree (like he should have) and fell

With its wood, going white under leaves with holes;

Even the strongest, longest things –

Like the breath that a girl blew in to revive him,

That sat in his lungs while he merged with

The earth. All I saw: my old yard and some crying.

The Unemployed Counselor...

{Image to come}

“This is my husband. He doesn't want to be here—”

“But he is, and that's good. Talk to me.”

“I don't think we need help, is all—”

“And that's fair. So can you say what help means?”

“Oh, you know, when young doctors who don't know—”

“Harold!” 

“—who don't know our situation, 

are humming and nodding, 'I see, I see.' 

Having us play games from psych magazines, 

when they've never been close, or ten years, in this space between.”

“I can promise you, Harold, I'm not here to fix or

to call your love broken, or to then claim it's healed.”

“Oh doctor, don't—really, you don't have to please him.”

“You're right: that's your place; that's 

your work—mine's to see.” 

 

“To see what?”

“Do you love him? Does he

love you—meaning treasure you, miss you;

what he's had and can have—

hard enough to make rust break away?”

“I remember what we had.”

“Do you, now? How was that, at its best?”

“It was hot.”

“Harold, please! Doctor, I—”

“You don't like him to remember? To long, and desire and dream? 

Isn't that why you came?” 
 

“No! Of course, yes, but–but first we have problems.  

Problems; something needs to be done. 

And don't you want to hear them—

these problems? As our counselor?”

“Solutions wear problems.

Tell me dreams, not what robs them.

And I'll see—Harold,

hot like the sun?”

Morning glory...

No one noticed

The vine – for its flower,

powder-blue & paper-thin,

Waving to us all in the wind.

Only took an hour

For its tendrils to become

Such a nest, we had to pull off
Thick runners. We left the rest—

Not that we were tired, just

Too late: the sun had turned dusty,

And dinners cool, on our plates.

*

So the vine is still creeping,

Unassuming (this, it's power).

And we hope that it won't kill

The Norfolk Pine it's

Netting now, beneath

A pretty flower.

Intersection...

“Good morning!” “Goodbye!”

He goes out; We come in.

One man's salvation is

another man's sin.

She and I make chocolate beet cake.

“He'll grimace,” we grin.

One man's salvation …

“Praise Jesus!” he jump-claps,

with child-like elation.

“If I ask what he meant, will

his levity cave in?

Like the dome on our vegetable-egg-grain creation?”

her tongue by my tongue

… is another man's sin.

His back hurts from gaming,

playing war-craft again. And
he asks us guilt-softly –

for he hates agitation,

“Could you turn down that volume? I'm tucking myself in.”

“So sorry,” as base-notes

crawl through the foundation,

so we whisper and try

to be quiet slipping in.

One man's salvation is ...

“Good morning! Is that cake, yogurt, banana, and raisins?

What a dreamy-good breakfast.

Praise God!” he begins.

His smile hallows me in

my decadent damnation.

And I feel more-than-full

… just another man's sin.

I hum; he leaves skipping.

Our wall's firm, but thin:

to each his own heaven,

sidelong.

We are kin.

The Vortex...

{Image to come}

Debating shoes was pointless – we were both in bare feet –

but it was fun to make dilemmas for solving:

I heard echoes of her challenges whoosh past my eyes

beneath the hum of my bike-tires revolving.

And really I just wanted to argue again,

              “Let's have lunch.”

She agreed,                               “The cafe,”

and at five-after-two called            “I'm here, where are you?”

from a patio ten miles away.

After this crash, then that crash, I learned to be far;

just to listen and believe she was good.

Every fist fracture, cracked rib and stiff scar she showed me

was an alien – aged, understood

only barely in my daylight (she was inked, sun-cooked, upright;

I was unbroken, shade-white, and falling

through firsts, and then nexts, and then more firsts with her).

Does she feel alone when she's calling;

when she talks at my eyes and they stare back for weeks.

            “Does their silence mean

                         judgment?”Oh, darling –

                                                                    “For all that they know,

                                                                    you began a black hole—but

                                                                              their opinion of you is evolving.”

Our ends & centers...

{Griffin Observatory photo: C. Vanderstouwe}

 It's a well-worn image: two lovers

pressed together, skin on skin, waist

over thigh & cheek on chest, hands

finger-laced & breaths trading.

It's a tired idea: a dissolution

of distance, after having  seen,

tasted, touched every tissue;where

all that remains is to purr & wonder ...

     *

She assumes I am thinking—behind

my calm, seriously bent eyes—

something deeper than “I wonder

what my fingertips feel like on her.”

And she means—oh I don't know—

something like {I want you made into

part of me} when she laughs & hums

“You're funny” into my short ribs...

And we are both unsure of anything

in this fragile-membraned combination

 of mundane forms—

cliché as time, as the universe.

                                                  *

Impetigo...

{wrists photo credit: D. Cote}

The infection begins to clear

off my arms (where it looked like acne;

now looks dry and barely

red), With healing-itches.

And that is a call for

Celebration, for eating just past full:

to where I can forget what

hunger is and don't really

want anything, But just am—

On a couch, with a cat

(dog-like in his affection for my

hand along his fur-socked

skull) and with crumbs

I will leave resting

on the table

'Til tomorrow,

Where they will be

Wanted (tasting sweet again, oh

desire Makes my senses full)—

This tickle of salt and slip

of oil will raise, again,

a dimple. I think

All pleasures

In life are

          dark on the backside,

        gone as they come,

       all as they are: just

     just echoes of some-

   thing

simple.

Spirit...

{plank-people photo credit: B. Hamadey}

At the start

was an explosion;

that was the

beginning

of spirit.

Earth,

the spirit of weight,

Pulls down,

roots in itself

solidly, solid. Solid.

Wind,

the spirit of momentum,

seems a trifle in brief

but then persists,

constant and total in its direction.

Lightning,

the spirit of opportunity,

seeks out the surest

path, finds the high point

in a field and is THERE

so soon that

              the ground

       sparkles

    on end

         before

 it ever

arrives.

Water,

the spirit of flexibility,

follows what channels

the obstinate provide:

between rocks,

over walls,

a patient trickle,

a potent tide.

Life,

the spirit of madness,

compels itself to be here,

to spread and to die,

to eat to make waste to

be eaten, in any and every

direction, just to fly.

People are

vessels for spirit—

artful storytellers

and justifiers, but still—

we cannot create,

conceive of,

states without motion:

there was no 'before'

spirit; is nothing after

its come-to-rest

As we settle, the world grows dark.

Like the still before a spark.

A plane passes the kitchen...

{planes photo credit: J. Holst}

Thrusts roar,

filling in the sky:

a scream and a rumble,

braided echoes, by

this flight.

Small girl sits,

stiller and still:

hushed and humble,

watching the sill

gather shadows.

Sounds fade;

high-end falls

away and all that's left

is a bumble-wake

and daylight.

The Honest Irony...

I sang loud once about Jesus loving me.

But all I ever heard of him

Was secondhand and shadowed

By the planks he bled away on.

I promised myself I was in love

When I was in kindergarten.

I married her by holding hands;

She left me by calling us what

We were (a game). And still

She's right – in a muddy echo,

At 30 – loving means too many

passing things to be a promise.

*

At 12 it was strange and hot,

Formless. Just the memory of a

Horror-film succubus, then a

flash of a May-pole waking me.

By 15 that physical tack collected

pretense and I asked myself what I'd

Do to prove my love – I decided on

Pain. A non sequitur; just a release.

At 18, 20, 22, my love was a fairy-

Tale. Each one was the only one (

Ever, every time) past girls were

Follies. But she was perfect.

*

I think I've decided to under-

Stand: my love is only as good

As I am. My love: a game, a

hot flash, then a story. My love

At 30, quite pragmatic: a smile,

a hug, a brush of tongue that comes

back basking, true as I give out.

Simple, real, better than alone.

That's the one thing that love has

Always been (over childhood toil,

wilting angst, and existential lostness):

Better than, better than, better than.