I Wrote a Poem but Who Gives A Shit: Winter Storms

I don’t understand anything really.  But it isn’t in that guru way, like “true knowledge comes from realizing you know nothing.”  I just don’t get it. The world is chock full of wrong answers that sound great.  This is a poem about that, I guess.

Winter Storms

I have heard it said
That real love involves delicately
filing one’s fetters,
Like shuffling papers in loose hands
And sliding them effortlessly
Under the ribs of another.
It is supposed to feel like ejaculation.
It is supposed to feel like entering
A new fish, something like an Oscar,
Into a new bowl.

There are also those
Who compare it to a trumpet soloist,
Dipping softly into a song,
Wailing, as they say,
Putting one’s elbows outward;
Addressing one’s presence.
And having the song become lax,
flaccid in your arms,
A sleeping child brought in from the car.

Like constructing an orange
Without the use of a caliper.
Or a compass.

Anything related to circles,
Let’s say,
Is comparable to true love.
The kind with the coolness
Sunglasses that never go out of style.
Jagged toes cut across a skyline.
A mispronounced Thank You that gets a coy “You’re welcome”.

But then again, who knows?

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