Anti-Hero as Painted Background
Love leaves as deep-blue storm light
conflated with fanciful dreams of old lovers.
We are occupants in self-hotels of chicken wire,
cheap pine boards, chips of dried clay,Styrofoam,
bras and panties and Western snap shirts tossed
from get-away cars with derelict mufflers.
This is when we are life-size. In the before-land,
answered prayers and pictures from arcades,
we stood tall enough to gaze over mountains.
Not really, but now we feel blocky, clumsy
in personal relations that do not require a Stetson,
trophy belt buckle, matching Colt .45 pistols.
When we tell others about love, its geometry
of wordplay and cobalt-blue daydreams,
we get shaky and tilt into the past tense.
The young pink-tinged girls we knew long ago
eventually phone, email, or request us as friends
on Facebook... just to say, Gauge me now,
sonofabitch, or, Your presence was too thick
for what I was mistakenly going through then.
You are staring at the ceiling at an art party,
or film party, or, in a dry spell, at a poetry party...
when love arrives with a backward tumble
that spills your drink on her razzle-dazzle dress.
You are that slab of rock portrayed as dangerous...
upstage of where the actors and action will be.
She takes you home because you embody
a manly tradition she can only give soft focus to...
from her ero-terminus (clunky bogus-brass bed).
She reminds you of how to mimic yourself.