Some poetry

inspired by http://www.teamliquid.net/blogs/viewblog.php?topic_id=363833

It is three in the morning
and there are things I want to say:
I want to say that more and more
when I find your hairs I less and less
think towards the pillow with that spot of blood
but instead wonder about the feasibility
of human cloning.

I want to say that my love is like a pigeon:
giant, ancient, perched on a balcony,
antediluvian, partially decomposing,
younger pigeons pecking away at it
hoping to claim its throne
and the tenant of the apartment watching on,
worried, hoping it will fly away,
not wanting a corpse rotting there.

And maybe it is an apartment,
and while a woman washes dishes
that pigeon falls dead and plummets down
into a planter by the windowsill
as the woman washes dishes
and she screams.

There are songs about blood
and sex
and technology
about the men who cut their flesh,
install electrodes into their brains
and become
human processing units.

There are songs about blood
spilling to the earth
and the machinery of war
and the men who come home,
their lives destroyed
but creating new life.

But there is no song about the blood
on the pillowcase- now dull, dead, brown
instead of red, and without life
or vibrancy or purpose:
just a stain, a spot
a constant reminder.

While I stare at the ants on the ground
my mom tells her friends on the phone
what a naturalist I am
what a scientist I am
with all my curiosity
towards God's creatures

and meanwhile I think
about the ants as lovers,
the cement wasteland ahead of them in vast stretches
wandering, aimlessly, blind, until
they come to each other, and they stop
and they feel each other and they are
for a moment
naked, and touching,
and as quickly as it begins they split apart
never to see each other
or feel each other again.