poetic prose composition, 2024
Love is a social unit built to house the infirm – a mausoleum for the child you once were. Cold and crisp, that spring morning you cherished last April held it. By the time your fog dissipated it had gone… but who are you to argue with perfection? This sort of language, you barely speak it – so when they hand you the key to the city, you hollow out your books and keep it there.
Love is an architectural issue; a feeling housed in inhospitable spaces that you tried for a lifetime to keep unlocked. Sour times, when the stars dropped too low and nicked you twice. Thought it might change your view but these sorts of labor grow with or without you… you remain in your ignorance. This too can be a thrill: look for it in Supertramp records on vinyl and in the dirty cupholders of your 2004 Nissan Altima. Go out and search for it when it goes missing: you can try Zaire, circa October 2011, but this month the world champ is Longmont, Colorado. Beginners might start in Times Square while the more advanced might enjoy a suburban cul-de-sac in central Kansas.
Love is the fool’s philosophy, and that’s that. Lovers are liars! And the sanctification of marriage is a ploy perpetuated by the municipal government of Zhengdou. Have you ever tried making plasticine of your love? She receives every fingerprint, crease, and pockmark all the same. Even your holy roller sister-in-law gave it a shot, but she’s been in Montana for years now.
This really isn’t what you think.
There’s a hell of a lot of bad people in this world.
You might be one of them.