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Fool for Love

Fool for Love

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Published by Sarita Baker-Brown
from show your sweet side .. lulu.com
from show your sweet side .. lulu.com

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Published by: Sarita Baker-Brown on Nov 07, 2009
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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04/10/2011

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Fool for love
1.After forwarding on the email about one word thatDescribes youI notice that most of my forwarded addresses are to all the menI’ve loved since you.And loved as badly as one can, when looking for a replacement..Each one sends back things they never told me whenThey could have.I am surprised to find that they have a certain surety of their placeIn my heart, as if I loved only them,as if the love we shared wasSomething above the normal disappointing sex and emotionalBlackmail ….,modern day romance being so easilyFull of shit. .The ones that send the best bits are the ones I never even kissed.men do not want the real person in hereBut something they can wrap around their fantasy soul mate,or wife or sex kitten or intellectual companionOr platonic star-crossed lover.I am all of those things.2.I took a picture personality quiz on face book the other dayThe results said I am cosmopolitan, fashionable and ambitious.PhysicallyPassionate and need to take care of myself so I don’t break.I think they mistook my taste for lobster as something I got inrestaurantsWhen the truth is, my penniless uncle and step dad used to fishthem for freeOff the coast of California.We ate dozens of them in my childhood, large and red andscreaming in the potI never wanted to free them, I wanted to drop them in.Would beg for my turn. The claws flailing about until they wereready to eat.Nothing ever tasted so succulent again.The choices of cars and dream houses, those fantasy places tolivein the test were nothing remotely near what I really want.
 
I want a volkswagen Bahia convertible. A hand built wooden yurtin the Oregon hills with two cats. A lunking intellectually fine tunedmadman with dark eyes and an appetite for mybody.I want to start singing again.In fact, I want to die singing onstage in front of ten best friendsand a music critic who will declare posthumously that I am a lyricalgenius.But those aren’t listed and soI pick the closest choice.My whole life is that way, actually.Never having the thing I really desire within reachI will naturally gravitate for the next best option,After years of this, I have a metallic taste in my mouth. The only two things I ever got for real wereThe land in Texas which I paid for in bloodmarred by the dead fathers ashesAndYou.Of all of them. You were the one real thing that I never expected.3.There was, of course, nothing real about you.You are a concocted figment of your own imagination, we knowThe best part of us was the drama you wrote between my thighs.You have trans-mutated so many times to fit the carnivorousdream of Yourself, I don’t know how you breathe,Such language like silly puttyOr that disappearing ink we used to get as kids.Nothing you ever said to me remains.But my love was real. And I suppose that is the deal.However, the innocence that gave it its incandescence is gone.4.Juan writes that I am ‘striking’ and in a postscript tells me he is stillhot for me/I remind him that the last time I was in town, he convenientlyinvented a girlfriendTo avoid seeing me.He reminds me of the way his mouth and hands slide over mycurvesHow wet I was when he came into me.I remind him that one night is not enough to decide about anythingas important as
 
Lust. He reminds me that we could never have topped perfectionwhich isProbably true.The German priest refuses to participate and asks how hepossible could use one word not in his native language and easilymisinterpreted by me to describe the indescribable thing that wewere and were not.We lived joined at the hip for three years, longing for somethingnamelessA home, a connection that would last and not touching.He would never hug me, perhaps knowingalcohol and loneliness could ease us over An edge we would regret later. ButHow did I have the heart to tell him, I would have regrettedNothing. His and God’s relationship was none of my doingAnd besides, my theology teaches megod lives between the spaces of our breath in the dark.The Irishman who charmed me by mailput me up for the night in Belfast,sends me the kinds of emails my brother might send.Anecdotes and information tidbitsThis game I have forwarded on.We started with the hum of curiosity and whimsy,drank and had monkey sex with little consciousness and numb joy.We stand here stuck at what now,neither wanting to give up freedom or options.He fishes for a word that will impress me.it does.I would be more impressed with naked desire.5.Ah, the stupidity of desire, the foolishness of lust.The phone calls, the frantic meetings,the time running out against your last orgasmthe hurried train ride back to the 1000
th
goodbyethe tears and the making upAnd the lies. Oh god, don’t forget the lieswhich drip down my cleavagerip out my heart make me aware of the blood pumpingThrough it..Such aphrodisiacs are only forgedby madmen and callow youth.6.The poet I fell for as a girl still sends melittle tokens of his esteem.

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