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Where is that artifice
I’ve become so well-acquainted with?
Is it under the brassiere?
Is it anywhere near?

Or does it simply not exist?
Making you the leviathan:
That fabled love, mythical,
Sequestering the cynical

It’s too easy to give in
And admit that you’re here
It’s easier to hold you at arm’s length
And make that potential disappear

But the artifice has forced its way
To the other side of eternity
And I can’t find a trace of it in you

Is it a dream
Is our sight
Eclipsed by our desires

Are you a trick

Do you exist in reality

As much as in my thoughts?

Am I artificial?
Superficial?
Do I put on smiles to make you smile?
Am I anything besides what my emotions tell me I’ll be on any given day?

Where is my free will?
It eludes me just as much as your existence does
And your beauty
And the brunette spiral staircase spring
Released to the right of your eyes
Which shine hazel and splattered green
As if they were their own galaxies
And my destiny as Captain Kirk is finally realized
And I discover the wonder in those nebulae

You are real

But I do not know how to accept that
And begin being present with you

Perhaps the problem is
That we’re not all there is

Love, ***, and eros
Accumulate but one section of life
And I am in no position to deny the rest

I love life
And I’m willing to think I love you
In that headband that’s bright blue
I do not know what to do with you

Love is a fitting fate for people like you
You are precious
And able to be loved
And that's the role I play
I parked
Rolled the window up
Turned her off
Got out
Patted her
"Job well done"
And I affirm her
"I'm not done with you yet"
As I roll up the other window
We live to drive another day
See the southern side of Florida
Just you and me,
Cali
It's taken me a long time to end up writing a poem about my car but here u go
The things
That used
To make
Everything
Worth doing
It's not about the fish
Or three days in a stomach
It's about forgiveness
We are always the hero
Of our own story
Blind to the pain we inflict
Unable to see beyond the scope
Of our two limited eyes
Not sure if this is a mantra or something else,  but this is the only thought I could come up with

Also I normally love titles
But I couldn't think of one
Do you remember when this town belonged to you?
I do

But things aren't what they were

And what's the point of droning about this point?

What have you got to mourn?

The idea in your head
Of the people you left
When you went two hours away
And where they had to stay

You just don't know what to do with yourself
And your feelings,
But that's not new

Rest easy
Be still
And know
Things are gonna be okay

Even if the job *****
Even if the average age of the town you live in is 67
Even if it takes a while to get back into the flow
Even if the flow isn't what you want in life

It's where you are
And it's your job to affirm that position

Because it's all poetry
And it all belongs
If memory serves me well, and it normally doesn't, this is an iteration of my earlier poem "Mantra (one)", written about a year ago today.
talk about it, talk about it, talk about it
and when you're done talking about it
talk about it some more

"but what do you do with the ashes
from the myth you burnt down yesteryear?"

irrelevant. its scorch marks will eventually heal
in the meantime,

talk about it, talk about it, talk about it
and when you're done talking about it,
buy her flowers

and convince yourself
that the color of the flowers
will communicate the love you have for her

"but the love doesn't exist, in fact
love is a matter of pair-bonding
and consistent vicinity"

you are so right! but just because you know
how love works biologically
doesn't mean you have to live in solitude

which you have been for so long,
but let up, and refer to my first instructions,

talk about it, talk about it, talk about it
because language creates reality
just as much as it describes it

and when you're done talking about it,
buy her coffee in the starbucks
and talk to her about those real feelings

inside you, and maybe they're inside her too
but you don't, won't know unless you
talk about it, talk about it, talk about it

and once the myth is built, the greek prophecy
will prove true, believe you me:

you will feel again
you will love again
you will die again,
you will live again

and when you doubt again,
talk about it, talk about it, talk about it
with her friends, your friends, and your family

because feelings that are corroborated
are somehow more real than those
that are hidden
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