poem: self-delusion, always in style

there is a dream: right now, he is far

away, in London and Japan, and he is not remembering her:

he is all symbol, not enough boy. There’s no sex

when it’s only literary, didn’t the blood on your lips teach you that, or the

blood inside that cute boy in the journalism class, the one who

believes in micro-organisms in the gut and not in

souls. He is

rotting. But aren’t you just as stupid, sitting in the dark inside

the snow

with men passing with mica-eyes and tulip lips

with women who wrote better poetry on their hatbands

and this is just emotional free verse shit. But of course

the boys will come back and abandon their other loves and I will be

validated. The boys come back but which one do I want

It’s hard to believe in soulmates when you’ve apparently had two, one for each

of your two selves: highschool and emotional laughing black

and

university and sudden red political beliefs and the crazy sexy inside

the freemarket. We are kissing inside the numbers; we are slowly friends;

I am not yourself, he is coming back to me.

(The atheist boy with the

dead soul

is laughing at me; at least he knows better than to

hope. But he, of course, has

a girlfriend).