Betrayal

It’s now all about money about which poetry rarely reaches transcendence. But love must still fester even under that. Everyone I know frets if poetry can still matter, but what about love? It’s all become too much for them, and they’re all on the soma. It makes sense with these pills when the someone they thought they loved for years by never thinking about it says, “I don’t love you anymore, but let’s stay friends in that mellow woebegone way poetry now sings without singing.” Of course, they’re always asking “What is poetry?” and then answering by saying it’s what Boethius was thinking about when they squished his head until his eyes popped out, or anything barbaric enough to get everyone to stop eating for a bit and reach for a moment past a chatty moment. Sort of a solution to awkward goodbyes. How money becomes a sort of welcome relief that defuses the poetry charging tense moments. “Interesting,” someone remarks between bites, “to be right here in the moment yet also out there watching some once-in-a-lifetime sublimity unfold, as if living as if already dead.” As if standing in a dream far up in the stars somewhere with Scipio