/merrillcole/

 

The male me, the one with

the bushy blond hair,

swaggers across the sidewalk, bopping to

his huge ear-pad headphones.

 

Self-satisfaction surrounds him

like a halo.

Anyone could see it.

It’s an automatic thumbs-up.

 

Just at the right moment,

my female side dances in, from  

the opposite direction,

her healthy chestnut tresses

bouncing to quite a different beat.

 

She’s American as the Sun Maid raisin girl,

a sweet fib

about backbreaking labor, oblivious

behind her own ear pads, a hymn

to joy.

 

The collision is destiny, the promise

that mutual attraction

of the approved sort

begins with arbitrary violence. 

 

Hey,

it’s a natural process, even if  

initially misunderstood:

“You got

your politics in my poetry!”

 

“You got your poetry

on my politics!”

Deus ex machina, a shop clerk in an apron

hands the indignant pair

a tasty compromise formation.

 

You go,

polyglycerol polyricinoleate! 

Let the dance begin, tertiary

butyl hydroquinone!

 

All this makes 1-800-SueU4Pain superfluous,

but

thank you for your concern.

Alas, it’s not the 80s anymore.

 

The tv, flat

as an underwear model’s abdomen,

has burnt through its toxins.

No pain, no gain.

 

Two great tastes that taste

great together: the bald propaganda

I couldn’t write, muscular, handsome,

so retro in his black Doc Martens,

 

and a pretty little peanut butter cup,

actually a prophecy, yes, an infinitely gentle,

infinitely suffering thing.

 

Creative Resistance (March 2014); The Good Men Project (October 2014).