“I discovered that, owing to some deficiency or other, I was fit for nothing and I decided to be a poet.” –Pierre Gringoire
If I don’t believe she loves me anymore
and love always hopes
does that mean I don’t love her anymore?
I imagine what would happen if I replaced
heroes of old with the people around me.
If Anna were to replace Gandhi
or if Lester were to replace van Gogh
nothing is changed.
But if I replace Ginsberg
the world turns into a wordless mess.
She draws me deeper into the abysmal caverns of her life.
How can I burn the fat off of my soul
while I keep checking how much lint is collected from my laundry?