This poem has no meaning,
it does not yell or scream or shout,
of God or love or revolution
there’s nothing its about.

A trace of metaphor or alliteration
might be found to aid
invent a meaning that’s not here
(except the one you’ve made.)

Please don’t look at structure
ignore the rhyming scheme,
they are not significant
despite what it may seem.

A social commentary might be tempting
to pin on all the blame,
but I guarantee you
there is no meaning just the same.

Don’t bring this to discussion
and for goodness sakes don’t think!
The only thing in front of you
is a pattern of black ink.

So I pray you take to heart
all I have just said,
if you discover any meaning
remember – it’s only in your head.

Two lines from origin diverge unknown,
and climb y-axis independent and alone.

On rigid grid-iron stage,
over million-boxed graph paper page,
frantic threads betray such perfect rails,
to wander and pursue their own erratic trails.

But by design or chance,
by tweaked coefficients or random circumstance,
two lines approach in converging slopes,
and meet in union of dreams and hopes.

Two lines run parallel in intersected romance,
growing together in winding, arithmetic dance.
Add to one and the other must grow,
to balance newly bound expression for values high and low.

Yet even in inking single line made bold by two,
multi-variable projections confound new points ahead;
and continuous functions turn to scatter plots,
of extrapolated romance,
or two lines shattered into mess of dots.

I survey two lines, met briefly then fled,
and wonder what equations describe a passion once binding, now dead;
or if this is chaotic system in which butterfly wings and forgotten handbags
map to fractal love instead.

Or even still that this is not a graph at all,
but a painting on some five-storied wall,
and I am looking on single brick within,
and splattered streaks are not formulas for love and what could have been,
but serendipitous mingling of paint that can mix to form
same brilliant shade again.

Nature’s love for us, she should express
in her precious flora that provides no less
than vitality; indeed! our very breath,
and then, in true romance, cradles us in death.

So then in dripping leaf and moss-covered stone,
Nature, in her silent, humble tone,
offers her pristine love in boundless supply,
that all require and none deny.

And in petty mimicry of the love She knows,
we may clip that love and offer rose
to lover, friend, or family,
and good children we should prove to be.

But deeper still can insight gain,
if analogy also can explain,
that pain that human love no immunity resolves,
but Nature’s love, in own self-seasonal decay, absolves.

For inevitable should autumn wax,
and in exploding colorful climax,
should green summer wilt and make us doubt
why such abundant love should ever drought.

But then in frigid winter, does love disappear?
In empty stem and freezing bark realize our fear
that Nature is but fair-weather friend,
and in snowy-gray resignation, her love find its end?

Undeserved are we, that cloudy faith should bring,
without fail new bloom in Spring.
And in budding petals and waking worm,
Nature, her firmly-rooted love, does reaffirm.

Grab its arms and strap it down!
We’ll make it fast and quickly drown,
this traitor caught in love’s disguise,
betraying hope with haughty lies.

Behind us banging on sound-proof glass,
is some sobbing shade who does harass,
with shrieking cries our task at hand,
but pay no mind and grab the sand

to pour down our victim’s gaping throat,
and punish whim to ever gloat,
and pose as some eternal thread,
and offer promise it could not be bled;

but now that promise we’ll quickly check,
take icy knife and stab in the neck,
and watch red fountain paint the floor,
in crimson melancholy and cathartic gore.

I do not like this work, but it must be done,
and regret I cannot use single-chambered gun,
to blast out memory in one pristine shot,
but know this is dirty work that cannot

be ignored and our captive let go free,
to infect our hearts with misery,
and slowly gnaw at our humanity,
striking from the shadows at our sanity.

So, rest assured and pass rusty saw,
to sever limbs, but do not withdraw!
It will writhe and squirm in agony,
as we cut through bone to make amputee

of love once steeped in revelry,
in grassy field and tulip tree,
with arms outstretched pointing to the sky,
laughing with gentle breeze of young July.

But now in subterranean, cement box,
behind twelve inch steel and maze of locks,
duty to kill our own will not desist,
and turns lovers into murderers – no, masochists.

Don’t mind the blood – it’s not yet dead,
take deep breath and chop off the head,
so that separately we may finally rest,
and leave this sullied room, both dispossesed

of the parts of us that compelled this act,
and use this blood to sign lasting pact,
to scrub our hands of this heinous day,
and pray these deep red stains will wash away.

New ambition’s goal is old ambition’s goal,
so that man, possessed, is caught in undertow
and tossed and bashed in ill-determined flow.

That conquest should find
warmest welcome in man’s heart,
and inhabit human minds,
in habits maligned in part and in part afraid;
confused that ambition’s pull is to but invisible end,
and that we have worn our hands chiseling tallies in the sand.

And that men should war,
and war should friend
the nature of our wit,
does birth us damned,
leaving only love to our souls acquit.

Love: relieve our self-addicted selves from the burden of our souls.
Give my passions eyes to see
that ambition’s promise was not just for me,
but love’s assurance was delivered
in hand-written letter
with solemn guarantee.

This fruit, its fresh and glowing peel
to my hungry heart does appeal,
Its glassy mask does my tongue entice,
and comforts passion, stress, and vice.
But on peeling back sweet rind disguise
find rotting pulp and ripened lies.