Longer harder better prettier love... the phone call.

We were draining planters punch with ice
chipped from the permafrost freezer as the phone rang
he checked the caller ID his girlfriend asking if he
was going to be home needed a ride somewhere
you said you might take me
yea but ...
So he’s stuck, you see...
Because if he leaves to drive her
because she’s too afraid to drive herself
he’ll resent it, and she’ll resent it, knowing ‘
he’s left his life to serve her, severing the moments
which make him himself. However, it’s the romantic thing to do
and he’s not taking the bait of built in bullying or guilt,
so she resents him, because if he really loved her, he’d want to drop
whatever he’s doing, and safely ferry her somewhere she’s
too irrationally afraid to
take her self.
He’s in the unfortunate position
of letting her down no matter what he does
so he tells her that and lets her down, by not staying
silent about the messy aspects of relationships she’s rather
didn’t portray themselves to poignancy
in their love nest.
He hangs up the phone
Shit! No wonder I’m so fucked up!
I lump his back with my fist ... heckling the mess.
Ook/I’m with you. They pass it on to the kids; our mothers gave it to us,
and we’ll in turn ... [Welcome to the insidious circles fathers play to the
misogyny which bred the deeper disillusionments you’re fresh from.]
Yea. It’s a bummer man. Makes me want to go live in a cave.
She sets herself up for failure reading ads
in brazenly glossy magazines
and then blames me.
I don’t know. She’s blaming herself too
for not being ‘perfect’. You’re just taking the subsidiary heat
of her internal war. What girl doesn’t want to look like the models
be a super partner parent you name it
know a lot, and be an angel?
You’re the towel of her frustration
a perspiration mop
for a flawed world.
That’s just great
he exclaimed.
It makes me want to drink more.

He made me reflect on the process of being understood. When the primary desire to couple is met, the subculture of problems within, which may have spurred it, are gremlins looking for strings to pull. The buttons they push lack descriptive focus, and attach themselves to happiness or sorrow. I consider how fleeting contentment and quietude can be; we struggle for global templates of what is newly amiss, then shift allegiance to their banners. No longer is going together enough; now we need to be married. Next we’ll need kids. That car lacks power. I need a V-8. I need headers. I need ... the faster computer. The ski boat. The blond. The stoniest bud. All along, underneath, sprites and gremlins toss our insecurities around; the vertigo which ensures poses problems we’ll grasp to, to Soviet Union ourselves into comrades slogans can stick to, to pass on.

I have to decide if it’s worth it
to tell her things ... when I know the processing of them
will take entire days. Misery and wasted time result
from highlighting her insecurities.
I wallow in the excursions from the present
which seem to be a direct result of honesty.

I hear you.
She’s mad she’s dependent on you
and has to ask. She wants you to know
she needs a ride, and show your need to
take care of her, which makes her made of something
less than she is, which she’s highly dedicated to hiding
but likewise resents, and of all people, she doesn’t want you to think
she’s weak or incapable, yet, who else would she show her insecurity
and fragile times to ... in fact, she demands her space to do
just that. How can she be with a man who won’t
let her cry to the subtle tune
of no reason?
So,
she hates the fact she’s dependent
yet she loves it. If she transported herself
she would seek another edge to bleed on.
Without fights, free of tension;
[the gremlins emerge
to call her out
of her cave.]
Can’t have
that!