Describing a Bad Painting Describing, for Christ's Sake,
Lost 'Love'
Look: the fat ass of the moon rises
Between sturdy legs of oak. That, is a 'love'
line. Try as I might, your memory fades
into dusk like a lost 'love' poem
might if 'love' truly ever lost
itself; o the skies reign now
in protest, a silver-blue mat
weeps lines of turpentine
on the vassals—us grounded
folk, the ones who don't know
'love'. It's a tired thing to try on
in a poem unless it's about the death
of 'love.' Like fate, God, azure skies
and creamy thighs, 'love' should not
enter a poem unless like a rabid wolf
it snaps at everyone in sight first
and goes off to drown in deep water
or under a rot-brown log,
snarling rip-toothed at a fallen leaf
when everything else is dark like
'love' and its aftermath; when
milk-white stars rise like pimples
around that fat-assed hunk
of cheese we call la lune
dans le langue d'amour
but what 'love' really says
is ultimately—um—nothing.
Like porn, you know if you
feel it. No one, no painting like this
of big-legged blues women
petting a stray mutt will
make it for you. The real thing
evades and distorts and pummels
you into submission like a domme.
Ask for it even though it hurts,
accept the pain as your measure,
bow your head to it like the little
slut you are.
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