He says, "I am the type of man incapable
of love"
by Kathleen Davis
so, anyhow, before I go like a Jim Croce tune
let's get one thing straight between us:
I never wished or prayed to be your heavenly body--
the sun, the North Star, the moon, the Southern Cross--
a distant light of navigation with which to set
your compass
I desired only the opportunity
to help you shoulder whatever shit, whatever baggage
has bound you to this dirt
but, you enjoy those bonds
and will not relinquish them--
not for all the tea in China
not for all the porn in our closet
not for all the stars in the sky
and even though those bonds chafe like hell
this puts me in the unhappy position
of unwilling groupie
with that fucking Eagles song
looping in my head--just that one single line
endlessly
like a James Joyce novel: looking for
a lover that won't blow my cover; she's so
hard to find
but, baby, your cover's been blown for years
though you resume your search for that one
twit who pretends to see your illusion
in all its royal colors: magenta, purple, olive green
instead of me
no moon goddess, I
who admired the sheer gray plain
of your magnificent ruins
and never found such accommodations wanting
