Friday, June 16, 2017


The way I figure it, the conquerors
had it backwards—true love
has never

made anything happen,
it utterly refuses
to conquer.

Love does not
do work, it only
takes credit.

It's the jealous frozen
lusty moon;
not the incandescent
sun that lights it.

Love doesn't permit things
or divulge its long-term plans;

in practice, the real thing
is more like a temporary, willful,
and difficult withholding

of apathy,
of prejudice,
of revenge.

Only, love is
lazier than that—

it's never cleared
a forest
of formidable oak trees;

it's more like the little breeze
that likes to go out gossiping
in the grass of empty meadows,

it's never held a job, never
plugged in a vacuum  never turned
anyone's car into a Subaru.

That's because—love isn't industrious,
Love is the bliss-
fully indiscriminate consumer.

It's never satisfied; it can't
be filled up.

And even though
we can feel it sometimes sloshing
around inside of us—it's all

diet coke and zebra cakes
and chocolate milk
and jolly ranchers:

it takes up some space, but it's worth less
than it cost, and it
just makes us hungrier.

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