I Can’t Spell Poetry With a Capital P (in the style of Danny Earl Simmons)

I can’t spell poetry with a capital P…

when love is a broken kaleidoscope shattered at your feet, spilling contents that are supposed to create beauty in colors and shapes, colliding against each other in a mirage of light and mirrors, but that today only forms a grotesque mess on the floor that I sweep up with one hand and wipe tears with the other…

when the chasm that grows between us is not quiet in your silence, more a weeping glacier melting under the weight of our demise, or a cracking branch hit by lightning laughing in the distance, and we chew our dinner in mutual discontent…

when divorce is like the plague but marriage is a slow death of melodramatic quicksand where I’m up to my neck in disappointment and my stretching out to reach for the vine you’re holding inches away only magnifies the wretched poignancy of my abjection…

when capitalizing a word means glorifying it, and what I’m doing is calcifying my bitterness onto its wafer-thin wings and slowly dragging it to its knees.