THE

Detritus

By Dom Sinacola · Jan 28, 2014

With the choice between you sleeping on the couch or me
I will sleep on the couch
Though there is no real choice

If left to my own devices, will I make au gratin potatoes, and cut
Cheese, at least eight manners
There’s no decision, I will laugh out loud at what I’ve done

Just as between the noncommittal sea or the outback of the open road
I will indulge in both
And sit in my boat, which is on a trailer, while my bud Neil drives

Just as an opinion on clothing for infant women is no opinion at all
There is only animal ensembles, onesies with snouts
Or unfit parentage

Dogs are not children, but children are dogs, and cats are stillborn
Their affection is for no one, nor will it ever be
For me, I am a warm odor

Numbers are not people, but numbers have sex, not to mention gender
There are no genitals, only curves or lines
For movement defines them

For this is love, asymptotically, two sixes passing in the night but not
Coming so close, just one superposition between
Incompatibility and immobility

One must dance so no is looking, or not dance
Love like no one’s listening in
Care because not caring is sociopathic

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