| I bought you your first mink coat
and gave you your first venereal wart. There should be some closeness
in the distances we have hop scotched. Are we playing games or are
we pieces on someone else's chessboard? I can't find satisfaction
in your antipodal lips or the puissant liberation of your yellow groin.
As time goes by I smile about our distraction and wonder about romance,
where gonorrhea comes from. When you stole our joint account I apologized
for letting you be the bad person you had become. You didn't understand
the falseness of the suppositions of your own loveliness. There is
bitchiness in your complaints and a vague unavailability to your own
recriminations. I gave you my house so I could live in the cold. I
have nowhere to hide when you have stolen the disguises and hidden
them. My picture is on the subway cars, an abused husband. I am on
milk containers, a missing child. A perfectionist is an ashtray that
wants to be a funeral pyre but wallows in cigar smoke. You are a speedboat
who crosses your own wake but doesn't understand why the lake isn't
flat. You are a broken tollbooth that is collecting tokens but letting
no one leave New Jersey.
|
Rio:
A Journal of the Arts