to soul places

When Poetry and Art and Imagination are derided

By the Principles of Economics, 18^th Edition,

What room is there for the Heart

When it is the Stomach with the ulcers?

Besides, Ideas are now unrecognized

Unless articulated by the Political Expert

And unsullied by Emotion;

And who am I but Noone whose

Naivete Someone finds “refreshing?”

These days, a quick Google of Rhetoric will yield:

“Skill in using language effectively and persuasively”

And, as well:

“Language that is elaborate, pretentious, insincere, or intellectually vacuous.”

And mind you, Love is but funny now.

As is Hope. As is Justice.

And I have yet to find the Euphemism for Faith.

And what’s the use of Honesty anyway? When the News

Delivers the most important thing  — Information.

Every hour, on the hour, and with the benefit

Of the most Objective Points of View.

In an age where Truth has been banished by Immediacy,

Greatness is only as real as Freedom.

I will lay my anchor down

find shelter in a calm cove

with warm turquoise waters

and a quiet beach

where waves never crash

but only,

like tears,

weep gently onto the shore.

My love is simple, uncomplicated,

unencumbered. Take away

the romance and promises and

poetry, it stays the same.

It is not presupposed on anything,

like you loving me back.

It is direct, blunt, nonnegotiable,

like fact.

There’s no denying love like that.

No mistaking it.

There is nothing imagined about it.

It’s as real as this chair I sit on. Or

that beer you drink. And

even if you don’t want it anymore,

it doesn’t make it any less real.

Your rejection did not make

my love go away like some fever

or affliction that I suffered.

It’s still here.

A cold, hard fact.

Like the hurt that I live with

like an unwanted guest.

This love, this hurt, they

are not illusions I inflict on myself.

They’re as real as matter,

perceptible

in all three dimensions.

I feel it, see it, hear it,

smell it, taste it.

You may think otherwise, or probably

don’t even care one way or another.

But that doesn’t really change anything,

does it?

I hardly know what to do with this love

since you don’t want it.

And I don’t know what to do with this hurt;

I don’t want it.

Sometimes I wish it’s you I imagined,

that you were never real.

But that wouldn’t work, would it?

You are a fact, too, after all,

just like my love,

and just like this hurt,

that I have no choice but to live with.

So I guess I’ll just be playing injured now.

I suspect it’s going to be a while,

but at least I’ll still be in the game.

I’ll see you around.