Love Serving Love

Sometimes I really think my wife Jina is trying to kill me.  She puts in a grueling nine hours a week teaching kids, then blasts me with shrill, shrieking recriminations for being such a slacker (I stand accused), despite the constant shlepping about from one gig to another I do like a chimp seeking available branches.  Due to sciatica I can never sleep on my right side and usually sleep on my left one (lying on my back usually leads to snoring and nightmares), which appears to be taxing my ticker–unless it’s the lack of exercise or surfeit of bad air breathed every day or wealth of unhealthful food, much of it laden with heart-unfriendly salt.

But I would consider myself lucky, in some ways, if I croaked early, even though I’d be sad about not ever being able to see my friends or loved ones again, ahead of time for my engagement as a jungle gym for worms.  It would almost be worth it to escape from my worst enemy, the woman who has made it her mission to ruin my life.  Death would mean mission accomplished, just like the one in Iraq, and I’m sure it would make her day to boot.

On that note, here’s a little poem I wrote for her; I hope it’s not too cloying for you.

 

Words Torn from a Scrap of Newspaper on the Floor of the Marital Rat Cage

Like an embryo embraced by embalming fluid,

my love for you will never die

and neither will it live.

Now that I’ve been born again

in Christ’s vast hospital

of cretinous criminals,

I pray to regain decomposure

but God has got his earbuds in

and cannot hear me

over the screams of the rest

of the damned.  Here with you

I have found heaven

and hell are the same place:

call them the world.

Love is so much more

than just a word:

it’s a fucking lie.

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