Leave Beatrice to her minivan
and casseroles. Forget lost
loves, lose the interminable
brooding and listen to this electric
genius of angst reverse the negative
capability curve of La belle dame sans
merci, watch it knock out
a reality script for The Faerie
Queene faster than you can regret
the love note penned at midnight
to the last well-read beauty. It
clanks along a Wordsworthian
footpath, enjambing CGed larks’
unrequited warblings, unfazed
by last night’s bender of poesy
and voltage, then straddles Dylan’s stool
at the White Horse, matching glass
for glass, then lopes the line down
West Eleventh to Pete’s to repeat.
Any given day, it’ll pass the Turing
Test with nuanced weeping, precise yet
unhindered by inefficient yearning. Pure
electric courses its silicon like the west
wind to fan lost loves in teraflops, as you
and I, dear flesh and blood, are freed
from our futile, imaginary ruin.