Self-Improvement (A Hoagland Imitation)
Just before she ran off like a child
To the warmth of her mother’s arms,
She asked the young man
To improve her life.
Using nothing but his fingertips
to make hairs come to full attention
over and over, as many times as he wanted
until chills, like an arctic breathe of air,
cooled the heat between her thighs.
Imagine him at practice every evening
more inspired than he ever was at arithmetic,
beads of sweat sprouting on his brow
thinking her body, her moan,
seeing, even before the admitting of wanted relations,
the quadratic equation of her climax
yield to the logic
of his simple math.
Maybe he watched her
walk from the car to her door
so that he could see the switch in her hips,
a silent cry to him
of hips that should be held
Maybe, as she sipped
a drink through a thick bottle,
he visualized the future
as a general standing on the shore,
one foot elevated on her body
to revel in his exhaustive victory.
Of course, he loved her and left her;
never cared about a notch to be looped
round his belt and hung
like a moose-head of achievement
Sometimes we desire
what we cannot or should not have.
There’s no need,
or we are convinced that our true desire
is that which we never claimed to want at all.
Often, what we make of ourselves
is not who we are
but life-like characters crafted from
fictitious tales that we wish to call our own.
The suffering
we all feel
becomes a necessity
we learn to numb
The climaxes of suffering are complex
intricately weaved through every moment.
She never learned to love again.
So the sidewalks that we stomp on
full of numbed bodies and spirits
are full of handed-down pains
though they were told it was their own craving.
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