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Max and I do not like the one I love
Max was startled awake by loud bangs, whizzes and sizzles of fireworks.
He saw his sister Billie and his ex on the lammas land behaving like dorks.
No doubt they had been at the rum cake, ham and wine and were walking like drunk storks.
Good timing by the Oldman that he was not here now to see how far she had sunk,
their voices shrill in the freezing silence like so many caterwauling punks.
There was no sign of Richter.
The man would not be caught dead in this picture nor situational stricture.
Unlike him, Richter read and studied the Scripture.
This gave him a clear edge unlike himself out on an emotional ledge.
Max told himself he should have jumped in a ditch
when he first saw that diva witch.
There had had to be in the matrix a glitch catching him betwixt.
How did he ever allow himself by Billie to be bedazzle
into having over Hazel and her razzle.
Did they not know the new year begins in Spring and not in the dead of winter.
Nature itself springing forth new life then,
at winterís end, despite human philosophical and theosophical splinters.
Trust them to be ignorantly celebrating Janusí new year,
the roman two head false god, one head at the back like an anus,
a seer ignoramus.
Max saw his reflection in the bedroom windowpane grim.
He had to face the reality that he did not like his lover whom he loved.
In truth he had not liked her for many days
One day the smiling beautiful girl he had married
went down to work in corporate world.
She routinely returned but it was her but still not her.
What a whirl.
This was some kind of corporate avatar that came home on evenings.
Numbers, numbers, numbers was the streaming hack, back-to-back.
Drove home on the phone.
Disembarked the garage on the phone.
Walked in the house on the phone and
the whole workday replayed out on the phone for hours and hours.
Their relationship hammered under the siege of alien power.
Max remembered Richter had warned him about this and
how he would just drift away on a solo roam.
There was no poetry nor verse as this corporate spiel polluted the home.
He would feel the keel of his heart running aground
and he would not feel like hanging around, in the negative sounds.
Max himself was never a suited, coffee drinking,
numbers, numbers, numbers corporate man.
At the crack of dawn or before,
his corporate lover whom he did not like was up like a pawn.
Hazelís head already plugged into the corporate game,
present only in body and name, seeing the rungs on the career game.
Max would feel empty and let down.
She would deny each time with a frown.
Then rush out for the early commute to town.
Billie was such a meddler, a real emotional peddler.
Max like Richter concluded some years after the ones they loved but did not like,
had left the corporate battlefield, that this was what she was really like.
She was a runaway train type, an adult tike,
who would flatten your emotional trail bike.
He did not like the one whom he loved.
Now, after the many layers of persona had been stripped away,
this was her personality and way. It was here to stay.
It would take a miracle, it may.
Richter used to say it was the numbers crunch pressures.
However, that gave him no hope nor relieving leisure.
Max was sure that his opinion neither gave him pleasure.
Mouthy muscular invective did not lack nor miss its peak.
Waspish flight from zero to 60 in less than half a beat.
Obsessive to freak about being neat. Bleat, bleat, bleat.
Max knew he did not like the one whom he loved.
He had prayed for intervention from above
before he departed their loverís cove and, so he drove and drove.
Max crossed that high desert seeking some life sustaining dessert.
The Sun was rising before him and he whistled a tune on whim.
Knight Truelove Poems 1/7/2023 CI-374868528