Love Poem
Jerry McGuire wasn’t wrong –
completely.
And it’s not you – it’s me.
No, really.
Genetic instruction flipped –
I’m not my imperative!
I preserved myself well my whole life –
now I’m ready to give it away.
All required is your receipt.
How bizarre!
This doesn’t sound right, now that I’m saying it.
It’s probably not fair.
Would you die for me?
I would –
for you,
I think.
I’m pretty sure.
But we haven’t need for propagation;
there are five billion of us,
and so little of everything else.
It’s kind of immoral –
at least in the Gaianist sense anyway,
don’t you think?
But back to the earlier point:
all needed is your receipt and
the circle would be complete –
pardon the cliché.
Metaphysics can be so wacky.
If those damn evolutionary biologists would just hurry the fuck up, and unequivocally pronounce the reason I feel like you complete me is purely self-induced psychotropic manipulation for purpose of maximizing progeny-survival probabilities, I would sleep better tonight!
And ever after!
Knowing it’s all in my head,
and genital, and there are more important things
on earth to be concerned with – like
how humanity really is destroying everything
on the planet except germs, rodents and pests, or
how racial cynicism will break the heart
of our empire, and then its back, if left unfixed,
or how colonialism, after itself,
hasn’t gone anywhere, though
it has, everywhere.
Anyway, I do want to complete you,
I feel –
the way you complete me.
Or is it that when you complete me
I automatically complete you?
So we are both completed?
Is that how it works?
Like I said, metaphysics is wacky –
I don’t get it.
I’m just sayin’.
Photograph by Sara Cimino
