The Grateful Release of Our More Robust Natures
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Star Wars is on TV and all we can do is go to Dairy Queen |
and dare each other into new flavor combinations, our |
handholding just a gateway to Oreos and backrubs and |
it all tastes really rich to me, like knowing how beavers |
build their dams but wanting to hear your take on it all |
anyway because I have a gnawing suspicion that today |
can be totally interesting on a budget, it’s true, we can’t |
go to Granada, but we can go on this walk and you look |
so full of facts and I have a can full of silver spray paint |
dying to be more beautiful and the world is so full of bridges |
that have no ideas of love so let’s hit these purple streets |
and create more famous versions of ourselves on them, |
after all, this is how our histories have always been made |
and love can be easily retrofitted into it, over it, and though |
some people are always three steps ahead, it will be me |
who gets to yell, Watch out! and pull you back into my |
peeling but other wise healthy arms and tell you that |
having heroes is wildly important, and feel really good |
about myself and then you will thankfully kiss my silver |
sprayed palms and you will see your beautiful reflection |
kissing you back and you will say, boop boop, in a pretty |
authentic robot voice and though translation is frequently |
difficult, I will have no problems understanding exactly |
what you mean, exactly what you are (not a robot), because |
this language is ours and it is heartbased and sometimes |
we feel, a little heart is all you need, but sometimes a little |
heart is hard to draw, so I’m making mine really big, big |
enough to hold our whole names and it’s a rebellion, yes |
but only a minor one and if we are caught, at least they’ll |
print our pictures in the paper, side by side, with a caption |
that will surely say something about Love, how it leaves |
its mark in the most surprising and out of the way places. |
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Your Name = Your Job
My heart is involved in pleasure and I’ve thrown too much |
of it into the air to care where it lands. This is my real art |
and I’m installing it everywhere like the ocean or the things |
we believe swim there. I am moving toward a new blue, a |
new place to keep my pictures, the last rays of sunlight that |
are bending like some kind of arm, like some kind of |
mythology. I have a feeling that will unfold in a beautiful |
way.
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I don’t know how it works, but I have a general sense of how |
it is made and it is like making you a promise with real |
working parts so that, it’s never the thing that is broken, just |
a chunk of it. I have a chest full of tools ready to fiddle with |
almost anything and this is turning into a grand and |
fascinating dance of grand and turning fascinations.
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Look hard at what we have here, it took years and monies to |
make sure Einstein was right about everything he knew he |
was right about, so what we are really after is relative |
comfort. We take comfort. We are comforting. It’s a strange |
physics, but it works. Like yellow on anything or that one |
time you believed in God.
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This is the history of what we do, however mystical it may |
become. My heart is scattered everywhere like a mess, but it’s |
this clutter that lets us know we are home. I am bending my |
arms around you here and finding it to be a welcoming style |
of halo. A cheap fix, maybe, but with only so many holds at |
our disposal, we must keep our faith in one of them, right? |
Like ghosts. Like the ghosts of each other, red and wrinkled |
in our skin. We can’t know how they got there, but on the |
nights we are alone, we’re glad to have them to hang onto. |
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P oint Break: A Synopsis Poem |
Johnny Utah, you are a man, with a real heart, act |
like one, says Bohdi. There is nothing but waves in |
the ocean, so let us make something of it. The |
differences between anxiousness and astonishment, I |
fear, are lost on me, says Johnny. This is a |
relationship we all know. The kind where love is the |
only thing not hidden. The kind where we fire our |
guns into the sky and let each other run free. |
Oh, all I want, says Johnny, is a lap to lay my head in |
and maybe some fingers that I can lean my eyebrows |
against. Now, I feel like I should warn you, this is |
where the movie gets a little sexy. Lovely even. Says |
Bodhi to Johnny, I want to share this certain amount |
of skin between us. To kiss us in all those ways we’d |
never before considered kissing. Thereby making this |
unkiss the new and most tender definition we could |
hope to articulate. At least for today. I have the |
feeling, Bodhi, that you are being glorious, says |
Johnny. |
Utah, get me too, pleads Angelo. Poor, poor Angelo, |
this is also the story of your heartbreak. The thing we |
must remember, though, is that everybody dies.
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The ocean is no more than heaven’s reflections of |
ourselves, says Bodhi, and so, I’m worried of its’ |
whereabouts lately. Where have we all gone, Johnny |
and Bodhi scream together, but mostly alone. It’s |
one thing to not recognize ourselves, but quite |
another to not even know where to start, where to |
fix our wandering gazes. How to live a life after I love |
you. |
Darling, you say you have never seen Point Break, |
and, I believe you, so to the best of my recollection, |
this is what that movie is about. Do you see anything |
beautiful in this? |
After all, you seem to prefer beautiful things. |
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BJ Love is the author the of the chapbooks, Michigander (Greying Ghost), and the recently released, Fossil (Small Fires), in collaboration with Friedrich Kerksieck. His poems can be found elsewhere, on and off the internet, but who cares about those when you have so much more Spork to read.