Love Poem (Email Morass)

LOVE POEM


I dignity because a balloon they once gave me.

I am one that loves poetry, and words, words that claimed like game show contestants who ultimately lost on THE PRICE IS RIGHT that they understood all of the soul.

All those poets.

They thought they knew the price of the holy appliance.

No.

Love is often a rural pennsylvanian stalker. Just ask deer.



BALLS


But I am still crafting you poems!

I have balls.

I have the gluey cherry popcorn balls of Christmas!


(It's for you, to hang on the hitch

of your truck or tricks.)


You went to an amusement park of the soul

and all you got


are these stupid testicles.



POETIC ARMOR


"Armor is fun!" some poems say.

Poetic armor might be hot in bed, but imagine gardening in it.

Of course things exist only because they are about things, and I, a Reader, understand this as a series of metaphysical markers, terribly different from personality.

The joy of frenching form.

Poetics? A cart that carts.

Sol Lewitt would probably agree.

(if I grabbed him by the testicles)



ANDRE GIDE ON EWTN



Did I really write you this morning, "Cheesy old Andre Gide existed, and desired..."


A dead priest was arguing with him the other day
in a beautiful garden on t.v.


Did you know Andre Gide is sort of shopping cart
the Catholic church still stares at.



I suppose being that much of a pain in the ass

he is a beautiful gay activist plastic G.I. Joe.



Oh Andre Gide, Cmere!

The Vaseline of your prose

could make even poetic armor less obnoxious for lovemaking.



I would like an Andre Gide action figure.


Am I being a Pee Wee rebel?



Or am I merely gardening in the church.




Either thought comforts me.






LOVE POEM



The Dead figure out ways to continue loving.

This terrifies the Vatican too.

Oh, even the mincing steps of non-intentionality.

Can be walked in a cemetery.

Even by a tiny little girl.

People inhabit a cemetery. Look. They do!

Some of them still have homes, although just the birds, rain and snow visit them mostly.

I always marvel there are no mailboxes in cemeteries.

Think of the funny junk mail we could gather.

"HAVE YOU CONSIDERED WHO MIGHT BE WATCHING YOUR HOME WHEN YOU'RE NOT THERE? FIND LOSING WEIGHT IS IMPOSSIBLE? SOMEBODY TOLD ME YOU WANTED A JITTERBUG!"

I think you figured I loved you in that "cemetery visiting" way.

I like to think of Koko the Gorilla signing earnestly as William Shakespeare.

"Dead drapes."

That's my favorite line of poetry by Koko.

Oh Koko, let me think of you a bit. before I model the poisons.

How do people ever recognize endings?

The answer (and the beauty of the answer) is that they don't.

They stumble through their delusions so pretty.

Erick Fischl made a bronze sculpture of one of the WTC "jumpers."

(That sex is an oblique and figured you.)

And put it in the lobby of expensive marmoreal serpentine marble wealth.

She's upside down, falling to her death forever in bronze.

Of course, people freaked.

Do you want to carry your latte & ipod past that every morning?

Well, how tall is the building, and is it a target?

That's the thing.

The happy fog pretending the human roads do not exist.

About Love.

You never know how tall a building you are.

What a good target you make.


Oh today, I wish John.

The happy fog.

Do you?


My love?

The bronze jumper

upside-down.


I don't really know

your name,

Beloved.


Irritating.


Fucked-up


Tumbler.










sculpture: "Tumbling Woman" (Eric Fischl)