TRUE LOVE IS QUITE POSSIBLY RETARDED

Be buried with it all over your face.
Die in the fragrance of OH GOD YES.
It's better (mucho) than a giraffe
made out of a balloon.
It's better than anything you will find
in a Little Debbie box.
Is it better than a carnival ride?
Is it better than an expensive bottle
of champagne/perfume/toilet cleaner?
Is it better than the best damn donut/taco/lap dance
in San Antonio, Texas?
LOVE (TRUE LOVE) should never
be capitalized.
It isn't polite to brag.
I'm certain I'm living inside a Procter & Gamble cartoon.
I'm certain my hair isn't quite right for the part.
Yoko plus John equals a joke on the rest of us.
But I ride the bus knowing I'll never get there.
I ride.
I ride.
I look out the windows and ride watching the sun
drip its viscera all over the sky and whisper to God
or myself or any available audience:
I don't have the cake it would take
to make
you mine.
It's a kind of return to sender Valentine.
It doesn't shine and glitter terribly hard.
But it's the card you can count on
when nothing else but bills
splutter at your feet
reminding you
of the rather depressing fact
that you are like me
another number
taking up space
in a much too
crowded zoo.