Petulance

"What does that mean?" she asks 

as the big heads on the tube

analyze the blood sport 

that has replaced the corpse 

of politics. 

"Petulant?" I reply, called into duty, 

called to defend my pride,

"Bratty, simply put—acting spoiled 

& privileged." 

"& how do you spell it?" 

I bristle at the challenge; 

is that doubt, or a test; 

but 2020 has been nothing 

more than a riddle of doubt, 

a series of tests, of challenges; & I am under her

Spell. Powerless, 

I must comply. 

"P-E-T-U-L-E-N-T, petulent," 

I announce in my best 

bee boy B·boy voice, or the best I can offer 

high & drunk & brimming 

with Love, 

as I finally find the strength 

to look into the eyes 

I've avoided all night, for fear I might 

just blurt out everything I feel inside 

& risk moments 

like this one. 

We ride on borrowed time,

after all, live within a mirage,

a potemkin friendship

that must be dismantled

when the Shogun has found

his way back to the dojo,

relegating me to the discard pile—

a ronin ghost, serving none,

served by none, once again

lost in the lonely wilderness,

a sole sullen soul damned

to wander, aimlessly. 

"Alexa," she says, breaking 

the silence as awkward as a tiny

boy in a world made for bigger men,

"spell petulant." She doubts me. 

Fine. I doubt myself, perpetually,

even wondering if I should be here;

or if I'm simply a glutton

for self-caused suffering,

a dreamer who can never wake. 

"P-E-T-U-L-A-N-T" says Alexa

& I'm exposed; my flaws revealed

by a single vowel, clearly unveiling

my imperfections, my humaness.

We laugh at my error, at a word

pimp bested by artificial intelligence.

She reminds me of my claims,

that she's added to my vast vocabulary,

"Is that true, or just empty words?"

"There's no such thing!" I reply,

"Every word is pregnant with meaning,

even in the face of apparent emptiness."

Emptiness is it's own language.

"But to answer your question, I have mad

respect for your skills, language & other-

wise; you are undoubtedly my muse."

Of that, I could never lie.

I die

a little every time

I have to leave her.

I want nothing

less than to be petulant,

to cry,

to whine,

to tantrum,

to beat my fists against the sky,

to force this Jewel to shine

for me; but wisdom warns me

that would only lead to an end,

already near, the end I fear;

& I cannot risk any

of these precious, stolen moments;

knowing I will soon lose

this privilege is pain

enough. 

So, I remain composed for her,

for me, for peace, for sanity—

however feigned, for the next day

I find myself, unable to think,

to work, to do anything other

than catch her scent in the pilfered

hair band wrapped around my wrist,

breathing in these notes of nutmeg

& leather, not unlike last night's wine.

I am hopeless & sad & fucked

in so many ways, except...

"Remember, remember,"

I remind myself.

Time is a fickle cunt,

no telling what the future

holds—even the cards offer little

more than speculation, hope

for things that may never be. Best

not to think of it. Live

in these moments, as precious

as she is, as brilliant,

as rare.

As always, I hold faith in destiny;

but truth be told, I'd rather be holding

her...