An Ode to Pimped Poetry: My Not-So Love Poem

An Ode to Pimped Poetry

My Not-So Love Poem

I don’t want to write this poem. I do NOT want to write this free verse poem about love. I could be the master of tantalizing your ear drums with soft incisions, inserting micro-chipped hardware that repeat over and over and over again how love has branded me.

If I ruled the world- imagine that! I’d tell each and every person how tired I am of having thoughts of expressing my love for you in a poem that I’ve written three million times- about every guy that I’ve ever fabricated my feelings for- just so that I could write a poem, a love poem for you.

I feel like a woman who has used her breasts, and her hips, the curves that dip into her voluptuous rump, who walks down the street in hopes that cattle calls will impress her self-esteem just long enough- until the next form of validation seeks her and finds her lop-sided foot inside her smile.

We live in a time where we recognize the power of words, and use them deliberately to sell our souls, to ourselves; to believe something that we really don’t believe anyway. I’m almost sick to my stomach to think that I have masturbated my thoughts on papers – and the back of my hand, because the real you weren’t here yet. I’ve overused terms that I would put in a poem to reflect your presence and to use these words would be like sloppy seconds – words like awe, breath taken, complete, satisfied, and whole. The truth is when our eyes meet, you know.

I did not want to write this poem. But you sir make me want to write often. The image of the way you look inside of me makes me want to release my powers to engage you in a romantic war. We’d put down our guns, or I’d put down my gun- we’d kiss like we’d never leave; always wanting more, and find ourselves- engaged with sweat and thrusting movements from the core. There would be lips locked like our bodies below- uncircumcised expressions that hustle and flow.

I am softened by your delicate care- you watch my step; this is an intimate love affair – that should have the privilege of words but I am stuck with wordless contempt. I’ve prostituted my most creative work- impatiently waiting on you.

All of the love poetry before now, was in hopes that when I wrote a poem for you, I would have reached a pinnacle; a mastered platform to which the unimaginable thoughts achieve – but I am lost in my own dictionary- wishing that I could make up a new American myth – The Vocabulary Fairy who’d bring me words about you for me only to express- so that you would know that my emptiness is not a lack of love – rather a bottomless place where no words nest.

I always thought that if I wrote about love I’d perfect its impression- I’d find my own love but bring others to a space of solidarity. If I practiced now, then surely love would grant me, one poem, one title, one moment of ecstasy to which no one could ever climb; you see thoughts would be of heaven- the planet where our love resides – outside of time body bent with our heart above our eyes.

I do not want to write this poem – acknowledging that there had been others before you; like ectopic pregnancies, painful and forgettable episodes of misfortune. But you love, I want to write everyday; like enjoyable sex that leads to a replenished earth.

You, I want to love everyday while infinity counts itself into position. I want this to be my last poem for a different person who I claim has in some way saved me- changed me, to make me more. I want this to be the climax of the trilogy- the one that ends without any confusion or wordless writing in my mind. I want to dedicate every love poem to you, freely and in truth- expressing what a real dream it is that came true- you for the rest of my life.

I love you.

Ressurrection

Written: January 21, 2012

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