I know…
I do not write enough love poems.
In fact…
I can recall just one and no matter if it
is the best poem I have written and in its
broken uniqueness, beautiful, it is
still singular, standing in a bleak
field of winter white cynicism.
I know…
one is never enough.
I know…
I cannot hang my life’s hat on one
love poem no matter if I can prove beyond
a doubting shadow, its
beautiful
diamond
singularity.
I know…
I should write one love poem per
day dealing with the depth, shape or
texture of my love on that given
day, today my love is a deep calm
blue pool, yesterday it was soft and
electric as silk and the day before my
love was a brutal pineapple.
I suppose I would write more love poems if
I had more faith in them, if they had not been employed
through the centuries as linguistic lever and fulcrum
to gain a certain mechanical advantage, if
I had not witnessed them arrayed on a dingy
whiskey soaked wooden bar for the sake of scoring
drunk pussy, if there was a thimble of honest truth instead
of angles and obvious goals.
Love poems are lies.
Love poems are inadequate.
Love poems are pyramid schemes.
Love poems are bait switch advertising.
Love poems should be sold by used car salesman.
How about this model right here!
Love…is a many splendored thing…
She’s a beauty!
No money down!
No payments for 90 days!
Free carpeted floormats with every poem sold!
Love poems suck.
Why bother?
After all, a love poem can never embrace you gently on
a wild, windy day or comfort you in chaos midst or touch your
cheek tenderly while you sleep late on a rainy Saturday
morning or make coffee with just the right amount
of cream and sugar or drive a thousand miles through
ice and winter snows for you and you alone.
Let’s face it, a love poem sits on its fat ass, flat on a page, like
a child that could never quite leave the parental nest, eating
potato chips, watching bad television, getting
drunk every weekend with its equally unsuccessful,
flightless friends and never taking out the garbage.
So, I will leave the love poems to those who need leverage,
advantage and angle. I will leave the my love for you is
electric silk, a calm deep blue pool, a brutal pineapple or a
many splendored thing to the unimaginative. I will leave the
love poems on their spent, stained couches that reek of bean
burrito farts and instead I will embrace you gently on a windy
day, comfort you in the mist of chaos, touch your cheek tenderly while
you sleep late on a rainy Saturday morning, make your coffee
with just the right amount of cream and sugar and drive a
thousand miles through a thousand icy winter storms for
you and
you
alone.
THE MIND ATTIC 