Poem For My One-Legged Lover, the Wine Glass, No. 41

POEM FOR MY ONE-LEGGED LOVER, THE WINE GLASS, NO. 41


Let us be metaphoric, something that usually
Cancels itself to be symbolic, in the sense
Of what is being uttered is beyond what
Can be said in the false discourse
of the ordinary man.
Come let us compare our relationship
We could call it "love,"
but the word "love"
is now under suspicion. For when the word
is spoken, written, or thought, it refers
to everything or nothing.
The word is as meaningless
as when in a grocery store the young cashier
calls the purchaser, an old man, dear,
sweetheart, darling, pops.
to something anachronistic,
abstract expressionism, say,
something like a DeKooning.
We started with a simulation.
In the past, a kiss.
In the present, sex.
We put this illusion on canvas,
Then with wild brush strokes, or tepid drips,
We cover it with a new composition. Some
Of the new additions resemble steeples,
Or the windows of condominiums, sometimes
A pied piper looking for Hamlin, or a hangman
Looking for a criminal. After much effort
Dedicated to our attempt to become an artist
Which means we two are one, we stepped back
From our creation, saw nothing
but suggestions
Of the shapes of politicians and rhetoric
Derived from Aristotle and Cicero.
It was the formalist way to display
And hide that we had nothing to paint or say.
Now, we both take scissors, use the blade
To curl purple crepe paper into purple roses.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Motherbird