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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Here’s what I’m thinking now at the end of the world: There are no atheists in foxholes— no theists in politics. If knowledge is power, and power corrupts, then why did I bother reading you, Cicero? Does it matter that I didn't’t love you? Would it have mattered if I did? There’s a poetry reading tonight whence I’I'll chide other poets who don’t sit alone. I won’t bring up death but I might have to breathe, even into a mike and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo maybe even a wince or two. Just maybe I’I'll talk about love and how following your heart is like following a dog— it only leads to vittles and (female dogs). But how many times have I used that line since the story I wrote about you, a witty and sexy and fictional you? Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you. I won’t recite it from memory because I don’t think about you that much anymore, not even when I search for my socks in your drawer or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me, horizontally striped to bring out my eyes? I don’t remember your eyes except they are blue. And I don’t remember you, not even when I smell cucumber and apple, not even when I sleep on my side of the bed or when you walk through the door happy to see me; even then I don’t remember you. Does it matter that I don’t love you? Would it have mattered if I did? How about a few one-liners for the end of days?— Depression is self-awareness, which you’d know if you were; I need Ritalin to listen to you, Lithium to hug you, Viagra to feel you, and Valium to sleep. All you need is me standing there, waiting at home with turns of phrase and word plays telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand but want to buy as much as I can and how I love celebrity gossip and detest poetry slams and find rhyming trite except when I am. Hypocrites can still be right, which you do understand because you nod at my nonsense about fighting the man. But now, at the end of all things— I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read, and you’re just sitting there, smiling asking me to pass the bread.
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