I'M NOT GONNA WRITE YOU A LOVE POEM
The truth of self-consciousness, it is not
An awareness of the self as this
Single self, or any peculiarities
Summoned forth by that orb wrongly labeled you
But rather it is the hard distinction
Of being aware of being noticed
By others as a you, living-breathing
Stripe of dream, capable of becoming
Covered in hives, or polishing one’s knives
Or sneaking some ice cream by the clock’s glow.
When the tussled angels, the mortified
Martians report to their supreme leader
Whom they may or may not call god, what will they
Say of what was witnessed here on our patch
Of land? A woman reportedly
Flossing with her feet at first appearing
To be replaced by dogs, a man screaming
In various phases--first giving curses
To an object he rammed his toes against,
Later as he swung his arms wildly, beneath
A cascading waterfall, indoors, nude
& finally nearly-nude in the snow
His head tilted back, shouting at the sky.
Two dogs this whole time chasing the burrowed
Mice beneath the ice, taking time to piss
On the Christmas tree stashed to the side.
The last item on the report clearly
States all four creatures doing one last shake
Of the leg before crawling sound beneath
Blankets, visibly dirty, visibly
Unfinished, but right before the male flips
The lights out all smile, hum in unison.