Slant Six. Erin Belieu

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Slant Six - Erin Belieu

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living as we do,

      like three-strike felons who smile

      for the security cameras,

      like love’s first responders,

      stuffing our kits with enhancement

      pills, Zig-Zags, and Powerball cards.

      I read: to greet is the cognate for

      regret, to weep, but welcome

      our weeping,

      because we “grant the name of love

      to something less than love,”

      because we all have to eat.

      is another thing Nietzsche said

      that hits me as pretty specious,

      while sitting in my car in the Costco

      parking lot, listening to the Ballet

      mécanique of metal buggies shrieking,

      as each super, singular, and self-contained

      wisdom of this Monday morning rumbles

      its jumbo packs of toilet paper and Diet Coke

      up the sidewalk. So count me a Despiser

      of the Body, though I didn’t generate this

      woe any more than the little man parked

      next to me, now attempting the descent from

      his giant truck, behemoth whose Hemi roars

      like a melting reactor and stands

      as the ego’s corrective to the base methods

      by which the body lets the spirit down.

      Buzz-clipped, tidy as an otter, he’s high and

      tight in his riding heels. Pearl snaps on

      the little man’s shirt throw tiny lasers

      when he passes. But who isn’t more war

      than peace? And how ridiculous to suffer

      this: to be a little man, with itty hands

      and bitty feet, to know yourself lethal, but

      Krazy Glued for life to the most laughable

      engine. Recycled, rewired, product of

      genes and whatever our mamas thought

      to smoke: the spirit gets no vote, Fred.

      My body once was whole, symmetrical, was

      actually beautiful for three consecutive years,

      expensive as a rented palace, and yet I blew

      that measly era watching my clock hands move,

      as if I were the trigger rigged to homemade

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