i hate the matter-of-fact
the conception of conceiving,
the notion of blind metaphysics
 
the reason trout spawn from eggs in
hatcheries across the road from streams
has nothing to do with why i love You
 
or why i stopped loving You
 
or why i love You again
 
but i can’t help feeling that
stupidity is why You don’t love me

and i can’t help feeling that
stupidity is why i haven’t asked
whether You do or not
in the first place
 
i don’t know if i’m more
afraid of Your response
or what we’ll eventually
make of it

because we wouldn’t
know what to make of it
 
i thought about what i would make of it

i vomited what i would make of it
 
i took one swig
and thought of You
 
one shot-
one voice-
Yours
 
two swigs of red-eye,
one me,
one You,
two ears

one of them is crooked
but it’s ok
 
because You’ll hear less of me
 
three mouthfuls, four swallows
i swear i can see Your jaw in
front of me
mouthing three words,
 
four different faces
one pair of lips
 
two more words
 
and . . .
 
the bottle’s empty
 
there’s no more room for
lifeless ideologies
 
no more room for
infertile bellies
 
there’s no more room
for Adam’s ale
 
and no more syrup
for the fish.