Issue |
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March |
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a poem by Karl Koweski
divided by halves
there is a man
my wife believed she married
and this man
works in a factory
latching onto every hour
of overtime available.
this man lacks the imagination
to do anything other
than return home
straight from work,
play with his children,
read discount books,
eat hamburger helper
in front of the television
offering his insights on
who may be
the next American Idol.
that man exists,
he's apparent in
every family portrait
nailed to every wall,
a domestic atrocity
measured out in stiff poses
and two dimensional smiles.
and then there is me.
I'm the man
who stares out of
the blue blanks set
in that stoic face.
I exist,
fractured and misaligned,
writing the stories
the wife won't dare read
based on a life
she can't begin to suspect.
I'm the man
who drinks on the job
avoids his kids
in favor of online socializing
and who couldn't give
a shit less
who wins American Idol.
it takes meeting you
to connect my halves,
creating a whole existence
bent on your domination.
once I'm convinced of your love
I can begin questioning
your orchestration of passions.
the shallow beats are there
but I find no deeper rhythm.
my failure to subjugate you
becomes your failure
to accept my totality.
and I divide by half again
leaving a cardboard maestro
conducting your surface music
while I search out
the next woman
for whom I can configure
my disparate pieces
into a man
worthy of constant devotion.
my wife believed she married
and this man
works in a factory
latching onto every hour
of overtime available.
this man lacks the imagination
to do anything other
than return home
straight from work,
play with his children,
read discount books,
eat hamburger helper
in front of the television
offering his insights on
who may be
the next American Idol.
he's apparent in
every family portrait
nailed to every wall,
a domestic atrocity
measured out in stiff poses
and two dimensional smiles.
who stares out of
the blue blanks set
in that stoic face.
fractured and misaligned,
writing the stories
the wife won't dare read
based on a life
she can't begin to suspect.
who drinks on the job
avoids his kids
in favor of online socializing
and who couldn't give
a shit less
who wins American Idol.
to connect my halves,
creating a whole existence
bent on your domination.
I can begin questioning
your orchestration of passions.
the shallow beats are there
but I find no deeper rhythm.
becomes your failure
to accept my totality.
leaving a cardboard maestro
conducting your surface music
the next woman
for whom I can configure
my disparate pieces
into a man
worthy of constant devotion.