A Trite United Nations of Lovers Part II

The Ginger

My friends used to call you a leprechaun
when I brought you to their house filled
to the rim with smoke like the Great
Fire of London in a mason jar.

We removed the cap and rode in your
new car, fresh as your daddy’s money
all the way to Radford, Virginia.

Your car salesman universal key
provided us access like communist
leaders. We invaded the bourgeois’
family van, and the universal key
opened its two sliding doors.

It’s a wonder George Lucas
didn’t emerge.

Still, we invaded like Ewoks,
and I climbed on top of you,
straddling you like a thesis
statement, all was balanced around
us, platform of love, and we made
just that, there in the backseat
of that van, price glowing on a giant
sticker like a north star in a car lot.

You once told me you thought
of killing yourself, and
I understood.
I understood.
And I cried as I said I understood.

I also used to understand the universe,
believed God created it all,
believed God took it away.


That night, this anarchist was thrown
to the pavement by blue men too
ignorant for transcendentalism,
by men frittered away by detail.
They will never know the meaning
of Laissez Faire, meaningless intrusion.

And I cried, class one misdemeanor cried
until you showed up thirteen hours
later, filled your car with some sort
of love fuel and drove from Florida
to our ignorant haven. And you lived
there with me, you and me.

We were two pilgrims that never
blushed in a blushing room,
rosey with ignorance.


When you left, I wrote letters to you
in notebooks, as if you were God,
as if either of you existed,
and I killed you off
like I killed him. Bastards.

I needed both of your nonfiction,
but for some reason we never knew God,
never needed him.