To discuss love without mentioning the word;
Or directly referencing oneself or the other;
Or choosing to include anything that is red
like hearts, blood, wine, or freckles.

To write a love poem without lustful praises
of thighs, eyes, fingers, penis, or anything else
that might twinkle beneath the glimmering moon.
To discuss love without platitudes blanketing cliché;

And to refer to love’s end not as a soldier’s death
or the beginning of Winter, Spring, Summer, or fall.
To speak of the demise without using words like
broken, shattered, sickened, or tortured.

To speak of love, knowing love, without kneeling
at its monument, to feel your head roll
down the temple stairs;
This is what one may
or may not
call art.

And if you should choose to, you will see it
in the slithering of a snail through a lettuce patch
and onto the plate of a French man named Jacques;
Who dashes the creature with salt,
just before slurping the slimy body
from it’s hard, stony shell.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH,” he exclaims;
at the bistro table, on the toilet,
and in an alley beside a brothel.

For some, it is all the same—
and equally as splendid.
For others, it is more sacred—
but not so much, so often;
So as to escape it from the misery of cliché.
To do so is a love for love—
and all I can offer you today.

written on 03/30/2011 by: Matt Kane