The sibylline contention: you, given like a Christmas to thieving
, passionate operators, even would violence have to your own
degree accepted—for all the toothbrush minutiae, web of tender spontaneous
kisses & counter-kisses, symphony of drawing up a chair & talking about it,
home-from-drinking nightlamp-luminous articulations enshadowing
the attenuating what the fucks, the why would yous, the if you ever
do that agains, the please stops, the go aways—& if it was not so baldly adjudicated
, but expired anyway, then “blessed be” & “see you later”; everybody plays
their best cards first, hoping to win fast .. so brutal our own attentional duration
to even the most alluring stimuli. Whatever death, whatever life
& loves you draw, remember that what you win does not belong to you, & that
you only get so many flush draws, so many pocket aces, etc.; it is sometimes
all we can do to say “that sucks” .. “damn” .. “shit” .. “what’s up” .. “come over.”
Eventually, if not right now / at some point, yk, it be like that; ends the nice
thing you had, breaks the work of art on the in-need-of-sweeping kitchen floor,
dies the 234th person to read this poem .. & the 235th .. & the very last;
the operative paradigm here being that of a living life force—believe it—in all such
pages, fueled by broken love songs, like, say, Your Own.
Be humbled, friend, by the business end of the discourse: your loves—love—moves in it.