love and the poet

love, as in falling-in-love,
no longer exists for me.
not fondness, not affection.
not any of it.

I simply don’t believe in it.

and I see no value in considering it deeply.
I find no meaning in it
of any kind, no usefulness or purpose.

not curiosity,
not nostalgia.

no interest in it
as a plot element,
or a conflict
or a trope
or a character arc
or the subject of a poem.

have I loved?
of course, and now I renounce it.
for good.

no-love makes it hard to be a writer or a poet. what is left to write about?

sex?

death?

injustice?

I suppose there are still some themes.

you’d never know it by skimming the shelves of bookstores. it’s all love, love and more love.

it makes it hard even to be a reader.

no Jane Austin.
Shakespeare. meh.

I’m trying not to be pessimistic.

it’s not as if I can do anything about it—about the fact that no-love
makes half (or more) of all literature incomprehensible and foreign. false.

I guess my job now is to find out what I still do believe in.

find those poets who understand me, who understand that falling-in-love is just a chemical trip.

there are other kinds of love.
I will write about them.

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