With enough unpleasantness in the air your mind exhales, you can ruin anything. You can ruin the fifties by thinking freon, McCarthy. Spoil an hour rereading ingredients in the cereal in your child’s bowl. You can taint your love for your spouse just by doubting it. Which act should take more than a few seconds, considering how long the love has been in development, how hard you fought to keep it pure, keep it whole, keep it. Can doubt be a word as primal as Dada, Mama, and God knows you can doubt their love, too. You don’t have to reach far into your memory for the biting criticism, the heart-hardening words that eighteen years underfoot can bring up, like scum on a clean pond, clean green scum but scum nonetheless, because scum is memorably repellent, not far to reach because painful memory is what lasts, what separates us from the other beasts, uniquely equips us to hold grudges, to maim thoroughly and immediately, memory the arsenic tipping the arrow that practically launches itself from the quiver civilization by nature provides.
You can ruin this poem by thinking didactic. You can sour your countenance by mouthing it. I thought we understood each other back there when I was lamenting the torn ozone, I thought we were connecting, that if the world was up to us it would be a successful one. You’re starting to really tick me off now. Split infinitive yourself. I can ruin you, you know, I can erase you by drawing my green shade, drawing my sweet tight bow, the hovering relic of a real live Cheshire mouth smiling not beatifically in no one’s direction, though the words would bury themselves in you. |
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