Every prick I gripped was a poem in my hand
—Ronald Palmer
Stupid
love. This is a story called Career.
And it has to do
with
stupid, stupid love. I write its name
(the name belonging
to
stupid love) seventeen times because I honestly don’t know
what
it is, nor what I’m doing, who he is, who she might have
been,
what it was as compared with what it is presently and
what
it will be in some future, should it arrive.
One thing is
certain,
and that is that I wrote (or performed) a stupid, stupid
love. I don’t know what it was, but am I ever going
to miss it?
Or
stop missing it? Well, we did have this this.
We were (or
it
was) certainly the thing, even as it
eventually were to become
nothing, or something akin to nothing. There’s still, perhaps
something
here, or there (as there relates to here, anyway).
Remember
where it was, where we were, at any moment
that ever might have existed? Who cares,
really, where we
were
or went, because wherever we were or went, memory
or
not, it says here that we were, most assuredly there. But.
Who
cares, really? The toilet’s still in the
restroom or the
bathroom,
however one might call it or however one might
have once called it. But who ever uses one anymore, right?
