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I am always in love because that is what we are here to do. It feels like dyspepsia when it can’t find its object or its object is abstract. It is like water going downhill, pooling in rocks, overflowing, moving on beneath vines, in the gutters of cities. It wants out. It has scared people, the abundance of it, and it’s sometimes clumsy, spills in your lap like beef goulash on a wedding dress. Like wine on the white carpets of the rich. I stammer when I speak of it. Sometimes I fly with it in dreams and there is the inevitable falling to earth, thinking I’ll die, but I don’t. I merely pick the lice from my wings and lift off again. There is always somewhere to go. I leave it under bushes like luminarias. I start fires in inconvenient places. The older I get, the more I scare people. You are not supposed to look at me that way, she says. You are supposed to have a face of eternal gravitas. You are supposed to desiderata your longing. Collect insects. Keep your hands out of your imagination’s pants. You are supposed to be mature yeah maybe like a cured ham or a petrified dinosaur egg. But I’m a flash flood. I’ll float your car. Animals know me on sight. Horses rest their head on my shoulder. I’m listening to the rain and thinking, I wish you were here with me. The steadiness of it. How it makes the light of us brighter. I am no longer ashamed of it. The love police cannot touch me. People who use the word “appropriate” every other breath have no affect. I am inappropriate. Moralizers feel a constriction in their capillaries when I’m in town, their mouths sphincter up into NO. I levitate when I can’t have you and fall to earth when I can. Come lie with me and listen to the rain. Wrap your arms legs mind around me. Celtic knot me. Reach in and hold my big bloody heart in your hands. Let it be what it is — anarchy.
Copyright 2018 Doug Anderson