Dear you that I do not, may not ever, have not known,
I love you.
That that isn’t some facitious facsimile about peace and world love,
my love is sloshing over in this tumbler as I animatedly swing my arms to illustrate my drunken stories,
my love is the condensation on concrete basement walls in old night whispering homes,
my love is teenage lust finally, finally given an outlet in someone else, just trying and trying and trying,
the things that it’s only guess at, wondered at,
spoken of in hushed whispers as some british narrator tries to —-make the wet dreams seem trivial, natural,
and not nightmares of embaressment spent sneaking to the —-shower,
sneaking to the linen closet for fresh sheets,
sneaking the old ones in the wash at three in the morning.
my love is sloshing floodwaters cresting the levy in white whipped froth,
my love is the poem of a poet with passion and no form,
my love is a river that flows upstream because to be stagnant is to be dead,
my love is a sound so great and so eager that it can only be seen.
My love is the poem of a poet who does not feel like a poet,
who does not taste like a poet,
who does not fuck like a poet,
who does not fuck at all.
because it is complicated,
he says.
because he doesn’t want to,
he says.
because he is not that kind of guy,
he says.
and goes home with the first who might ——————————————–ask.
because he is looking for something, really something,
he says.
who is lonely, but still does little to solve it.
I love you because I scrawl in gifted leather notebooks these prestine ideals that you do not have,
that no one has.
Because, that is what poets do.
But poets are wrong.
Poetry is wrong,
but this is what’s read,
this is what’s read,
this is what’s read,
if it’s read at all.
I love you because I want you to love me,
to read me,
to care about these sham scrawls slopped over the edges of the glass.
Let’s talk about your beautiful lips again,
and how you bite them…
