A Trite United Nations of Lovers Part III

Under the Sheets with Ruby

I have always feared death,
but it wasn’t until after we
touched in the graveyard
that I sprung up in my bed,
breaths and pants paralleling
the back of your ghost jeep that night,
my panic attack like balcony
staring into the cosmos
that used to end at the horizon.

It expands now.
It expands.

My mind is scratching for survival
on the bare carpet in that rental house,
carpet burned with morals.

(My morals lost now in a box
in the basement)

And you apologized because you
cared about my fairy tale submerged
mind, so similar to God like Santa
Claus in a mall. You believed it too.

I once drove through the cows
on Prices Fork to bang on your window
in my desperation, stupid girl.
I loved you, ignorant loved you,
like a child on the lap of the Pagan
Santa staring at you in wonder.

And when you held me and they
came in with bookbags, you escaped
to the back room, a soldier in a ditch,
to concoct like Hecate a solution
for dumb boys. You joined them
in their stupidity so often.

Like a chopped up plant on a scale,
you measured your love for me in digital
affection, bagged it up in plastic regret.
I was too innocent for the plant
that sprouts from the ground like children
emerged from wombs, like the birth
of planets and universes, our dense universe
spinning on a turn table in your room
screaming Otis Redding like so many
lost brain cells, like so many cans
of baked beans from Wades supermarket,
our love accumulating and spiraling
like surplus capital.

This girl would smoke it now, not
to join you in ignorance but to attempt
a transcending sublime. I would read
Emerson with my transparent red eyeball,
and I would be great while being
misunderstood while you would
just be ego-great
through the cracks in your eyes,
through red veins.

You are the hobgoblin of my little mind,
and all the while you knew nothing
of life and its occurrences. Your goal
was money, pieces of paper like so
much marijuana rolled into one white sheet,
like so much lack of simplicity.

And where is your money, your surplus
capital now? Still in the top of your closet
like a wad of memories? Like a wad
of your ego still bound together like
my published poetry journals,
like a modern Johann Gutenberg.
Or is it in a mutual fund floating
past the Federal Reserve?

This democratic socialist anarchist
dystopian juxtaposed girl won’t judge.

And I recently floated past you from across
that store in dystopian thought,
and we smirked at one another
because we knew what they never will.