2006-10-06 - 11:41 p.m.
A poem for polyamorous superheroes Let us begin with a rose. This is our love, this rose.
It is a bit of a cliche, of course, which is fitting
because our love began in a fairly typical manner: Girl meets boy.
Girl sees boy around town.
Girl decides to leave town.
Shortly before leaving--
tragic, cue the violins--
Girl and boy realize they like each other.
Girl and boy start dating
and soon fall in love. Of course, there are a few other girls
and a few other boys in our story,
and the genders are generally negligible
but let's not try to mix plots
or metaphors...
too much. This rose.
Planted then transplanted a few weeks later.
Driven down the I-101 three months later.
Volleyed between California's Bible Belt,
and the capital city of the
Province of Red Neck Premiers.
An unlikely setting for romance. Fertilized by phone calls. (Note the alliteration. It is intentional.) This rose.
Finally planted. This rose has been transplanted so often
that it is a miracle to see it solid
stuck in soil that supports it. (Alliteration again.) But let us not mince words
as we describe the soil in which
our dear rose has finally found itself. Shit. Manure. Shit.
Euphemisms are useless to us here.
Shit shit shit shit shit. And out of this shit,
our rose. Blooming, growing,
reaching upwards to the stars. A flower like none other in the universe. Future readers of this poem may quite rightly seek out
the underlying reason for the rose-as-metaphor
within the pages of a children's book
or inked upon the poet's right shoulder blade.
Autobiographical notes are very du jour these days. Or in a technicolor film strip:
If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again
I won't look any further than my own backyard. (Shall I make it more obvious?) Thus, Dorothy clicks her heels together one last time
while a young boy with hair the colour of wheat
whizzes past her tornado-tossed house,
clutching desperately to a butterfly net
filled with comets. On ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur, he screams.
L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux --
or some other unintelligible gibberish. And so here it is, our miraculous garden.
Most people would see shit. We saw a rose.
It's one of our amazing super powers, you know,
this magickal vision of ours.
--mopheaded is hyperbole in action
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