I understand very little poetry and often wish I could appreciate it some more. Sometimes lovers-who-could-have-been read out poems aloud, other times narcissistic writers sent me poems in the mail, on paper napkins that are now all blotted ink and crumpled paper. It seems futile, I understand so little and laugh at every turn of phrase like a giddy schoolgirl. At other times, I read them out aloud to lovers-who-want-to-be and ignore their petty pleas, “Please stop. Pretty, please?”
But see, this one I love: Curt Anderson's Platonic Love
But see, this one I love: Curt Anderson's Platonic Love
We dine at Adorno and return to my Beauvoir.
She compliments me on my Bachelard pad.
I pop in a Santayana CD and Saussure back to the couch.
On my way, I pull out two fine Kristeva wine glasses.
I pour some Merleau-Ponty and return the Aristotle to Descartes.
After pausing an Unamuno, I wrap my arm around her Hegel.
Her hair smells of wild Lukacs and Labriola.
Our small talk expands to include Dewey, Moore and Kant.
I confess to her what’s in my Eckhart. We Locke.
By this point, we’re totally Blavatsky.
We stretch out on the Schopenhauer.
She slips out of her Lyotard and I fumble with my Levi-Strauss.
She unhooks her Buber and I pull off my Spinoza.
I run my finger along her Heraclitus as she fondles my Bacon.
She stops to ask me if I brought any Kierkegaard. I nod.
We Foucault.
She lights a cigarette and compares Foucault to Lacan.
I roll over and Derrida.
God, so clever.