Wednesday, November 28, 2012


for Mary on her 29th birthday

you mean so much to me
it’s just not worth calculating – like the time I would spend
tallying it all up is better spent
writing something no one will read but you

have you ever tried to use a calculator as a shoe horn
or a whisk? It’s nearly useless in its omnipresent usefulness
as if the un-keyed numbers inside the machine
have histories of their own
& are unwilling to tell us, those bastards

I’ve figured out that there will always be new
restaurants to try with you, new and violent movies
to force you to watch, video games
where we murder thousands, literally
& places to explore – the limitless cracks in the
basement that we spelunk with headlamps &
40s of horse spit – the floating faces in neighbor’s window
as we mimic the mating calls of owls or just
our own mating calls whatever

fantastic, we will read about it
because I’ll force us to do that too  

we play pool together & calculate what each other
are looking at: high def televisions, buffalo chicken wings
Bocce & crotches & the fools that make this life
so fucking good to live

with you, I’m saying
that’s the whole point, right? This, right here
is very exciting & no one should be allowed to use the
word love in a poem. Anyone that does should have their
hands chopped off
& set out on the sidewalk as a warning to all
poets & people entertaining the notion that someday,
through hard work & countless rejections,
they might be a poet

so much of the calculation isn’t figuring out what
to do, but what not to do. There’s only one calculator
that can figure out restraint – which ball to hit & at what angle –
how much will this really make me happy? Watching you
whisk or flip or marinate poolside in the great state of Texas
all of these questions are much easier 

for the most part

love does that to you
the change is a subtle as a comma, but easier to use correctly
because you make that easy too
I mean, you mean, we all mean something to someone
I love you

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