It is Sunday morning in February in Northern New York. There are two more months left for inclement weather to house me. Shackleton’s men ate the dogs and frostbit their toes on a plate of frozen steel. There were no women and no shower. No sandwiches. No potato chips. Clubbing penguins and slurping blubber to survive. Geez, I can’t go three days in a row, even owning the super comfort of heat and electricity, before I am tempted to Phineas Gage my frontal lobe. The following is a summer joy to help those who have hot water and a playmate to help them yank on old man winter’s ice fish hook stuck up the cerebrum.
From Leopold Courting Rose:
It is morning and I hope you made it to work safely. There are few feelings more vitalizing than waking up next to you. Shimmying up the swing pole is one of them. But even that cannot guarantee spiritual orgasm…
For God’s sake, just tell her you love her.
All right. I love you.
And why don’t you write her a poem?
Yes. Touch her in a way so to mock all distance.
But I will see her tonight at my door, and I can touch her then.
I don’t mean touch her there you fool! Her skin is not as smooth as the delicate plane of her heart.
Yes, but words are not worth any moment. They can’t even mimic real living sense.
They have their place.
Where you will never get without words.
Are you going to write her a poem?
It will be nothing.
You’re right. Nothing will ever satisfy her longing.
Hey, wait a minute—
Wait nothing. Just write the damn poem!
All right. Geez… I don’t see the point, but here it goes…
Myself says that you will always be one
Like a light blue sky being
nothing that is affected
even by clouds and what they inspire.
There is nothing I do or put into you
that will change sky
He thinks you are air,
but you are sky!
Myself isn’t always so smart.
Even I know you can never be one.
It’s afternoon and already the clouds come
silently to put myself asleep,
someday, like everything else,
to become one and rarefy to air…
Now I dream that our only chance is to be sky
and wonder how the stuff of us
dart a million shades of rose sunset.
I think she is myself to inspire
and be inspired,
else we forget.
What the hell was that?
You told me to write a poem.
Yeah, a poem. Not an unintelligible clump of dung.
Well, I felt like I was on the spot.
She doesn’t make you do a damned thing.
Yes, but you do.
Listen, try giving her flowers and a box of candy. Obviously you can’t express yourself.
No, I won’t.
I don’t think that is very personal.
So you write her a poem that even you can’t comprehend? Next time ask her to find the anti-derivative of .003xy.
Poems can be pretty.
Candy is smarter.
Poems can cheer.
Flowers are quicker.
Poems are cheap.
You got me there. But look, why couldn’t you have written something more simple and beautiful. Like this:
The winter night
Is long only in name—
We’ve done no more
Than gaze at each other
And it’s already dawn.
You didn’t write that.
You’re right, I spoke it. You’re the fool doing the writing.
I mean you didn’t think of it.
How do you know?
Sounds Japanese. And you’re too stupid to be Japanese.
Look here, I am the rude and obnoxious one. You’re just jealous that someone else may love her.
Someone will always love her.
If you keep writing this crap to her, that someone won’t be you.
You keep your distance!
Hey, you’re not the one to tell me—
Just tell her that you love her.
All right. I love you.
Now say “Good day”.
And apologize for that ugly poem.