Sunday, August 28, 2011

Halo 2 Be Thy Name


Halo 2 Be Thy Name

Today, I write a love poem
about the history of love
poems, both remembered and the greater
majority, forgotten. I do so as an answer to young
girl in love for the first time, pleading
with the boy to stop the electronic
make believe for just a moment
and notice. Notice her and notice his life,
unvirtualized, passing into dust. Flesh aches.
She wants him to notice her eyes
as I did with my wife's, her developing
into a woman. From her breast cries out
the need to find the treasure forgotten
but no one noticed. Her eyes find
the ancient tears of warriors
looking their way back to what once
was. She longs to be filled
with words trying to contain
the uncontainable. Only in the trying
can the sonnets give voice like
a peanut butter to a three year olds.
The first person shooter aims
not for her, but at a covenant
with make believe. He will
not turn aside form his controller 
(from a world unalive to his godlike fantasies)
until her eyes are directed else where,
tragedy of possibilities.

Once, my wife was that little girl.
Waiting around for words
to be brought in those cheap
gift bags for the dollar store.
I, fed on Neruda, the Brownings,
Shakespeare, Miloz , and ...you get
the point, came to her, who suffers
from heartburn, with spicy words
of my own creation. Now,
ten years later, my words still
burn on a grill, tossed in a green
chile sauce and she stays despite
the occasional tummy ache. 
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