Fumes of Pure Longing

I can’t look at these photos
And pretend I don’t have feelings
But I’m so detached from myself
That my feelings might as well mean nothing
They aren’t connected
To any reciprocal action
In their object
Or subject
And even though I’ve noticed
A certain enthusiasm
Enthusiasm could mean anything
Literally anything
No different from saying “nothing”,
Or even worse


An Ode to Love Itself

I am like a rodent, peering between leaves
While in the foreground cars parade
Down Broadway, and gasoline flows
In fragrant rivers, down the throat
Of this town and its vagrant children
From an out-of-the-way boulder I’ll compose
A sonnet explaining that love
Isn’t real, just a sensation following
Association or yearning, even though
In my breast pocket I carry a folded document
Inscribed with odes to love itself

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s