• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 04
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My Rugged Individualist

Breathing is over-rated, she tells me,
or so I pretend she tells me.
Because in reality she’s a bit stand-offish,
a tad reluctant to acknowledge
my over eager presence, my boyish excitement.
Me, a mere mortal, while she is a goddess,
a haughty visitor from a neighboring star system,
capable of most anything, lovably unique.
I try to reason with her about the impracticality
of pairing leather coat with scuba diving,
but she just scoffs in that adorable way,
denying my very existence. I take solace
in the hope that one day, when sinking
like a Sisyphean boulder to some
deadly Mariana Trench, she might recall
my kind and caring advice, my two-cent
investment in that treasure chest of a heart.

Show me the classic art comprising your view,
the spun silk of your orange hair that frames
the hidden beauty of your maritime face,
no doubt wearing an expression Poseidon
could only hope to someday muster.
Your hatred of me cannot hurt me,
it’s just new misinformation, more shells
left in large capital letters spelling out
the innermost feelings of my shipwreck
of a heart. Someday we might venture
a quick hang alongside Davy Jones’ locker,
and I’ll savor that look that tells me sweetly
how your divine indifference
simply does not care at all.


My Rugged Individualist

Her air of stale tartar sauce
triggers happy memories
of Long John something or other’s,
a fish fry frolic of innocent youth,
plain as a Whitmanesque observation
or the clear green of our sky.

The card has roses on an empty beach,
but my thorn-bringer is eccentrically sharp,
a simple but complex Gordian knot
whose anger may someday subside.
And then I will pretend she’s mine
until the high tide takes us both,
my valentine of this loveless coast,
my dearest doppelganger.