"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...
