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poetry fell in love with some guy
not a beautiful guy
not anyone in particular
like you wouldn't even notice if you saw him at the WaWa
buying a pickle in a bag or a giant cup of coffee
naturally being human the guy eventually died
of some dumb human cause like too many cheetos
or a train falling on him or old age
sometimes it's a girl but the story's the same
poetry was inconsolable as usual
everyone was like poetry
what were you thinking
this happens every time
you're an eternal emergent property of verbal intelligence
and that dude is just a dude
he's not even good looking
you've got to get over it
it's like falling in love with a carpet beetle larva
or a cicada skin or something
that gave poetry an idea
everything always gave poetry ideas
poetry decided to go into the ground
and sing his dead man back alive
he knew he could do it
with the right combination
of boldness and grammar poetry is capable of anything
that's the difference between poetry and real life
poetry sang his way down into the cellar
he sang down the rickety steps into the catacombs
he sang into the black subbasement beneath the true earth
where the dead drift around like dust and no one remembers music
he played his guitar and the chords filled up the darkness
the queen of the dead was a sucker for poetry
she was eternally susceptable to chords and words that rhyme
the dusty tears rolled down her gigantic naked cheekbones
before the lyrics even started she was making ugly sobbing sounds
she knew what was coming
it had happened before
it had all happened a billion times before
poetry never learns from experience
the dead were all listening with what was left of their ears
all the dead men and women poetry had loved and failed to save
they rose on the sound of his voice like cartoon cats
on the smell of cartoon meat pies left carelessly on tables
they swirled like airborne dust illuminated by the chords of his guitar
they had forgotten music until this moment
every time no matter how many times it happened
every time they thought this time it would work
the sounds from poetry's mouth and poetry's strings were inevitable
and so their rescue must also be inevitable
that's what poetry does to you
it makes you believe in things
you have no reason to believe in
in sounds instead of meaning
in drumbeats instead of dust
you probably already know what happens next
poetry made the queen of the dead cry
poetry lay down on the packed solid dust of the subbasement of the dead
and sang his lovers loose from their invisible chains
by this time there were thousands of them
some newly dead and almost whole
some barely more than a cold gash in the air
they rose and began the long trek up the stairs to the land of the living
hoping and fearing he would look back at them
knowing and not knowing he still loved them enough
to lose them forever again and again
poetry never learns
by now everyone is more or less resigned to it
one day you too will meet poetry
at a concert or the dog park or at some party
you almost didn't go to and he will fall in love
hopelessly and forever, the way only poetry
can fall in love
it makes no difference
how beautiful or talented you aren't or how indifferent
he loves you for being alive and for being real
in the specific way that only you are
and the things about yourself you hate the most
he breathes to brightness and rejoices in
poetry will always be like this
it's no use trying to change him
one day of course you too will die
and poetry will be inconsolable as usual
it doesn't matter if you write 100 books
and live to a contented old age
and die peacefully surrounded by your loving family and friends
or however it is you would most like to die
it doesn't matter if you do everything you wanted to do in life
and then say out loud to poetry in your most serious voice
"I'm so glad I had a good long life
I'm really looking forward to being dead"
poetry will flat out refuse to bear it
he will weep and make songs
he will try to sing you back to him
again and again and again and again
don't worry about it too much
eventually it happens to everyone
the nice thing about poetry never learning
is that poetry never learns
the one thing that always defeats poetry's love
is his love
he will carry his heartbreaking chords into the darkness
he will sing his plea in rhyme to the sentimental queen of the dead
you will rise with the rest borne on his selfish ageless sorrow toward the rotting staircase of the dead
you will feel as if there is nothing in the world but that song
you will follow him up those black black stairs with your eyes on the back of his head thinking
look back you sucker
look back motherfucker
look back
look back
look back