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Wisdom from a 500lb. Man (is Heavy Indeed)

by Scott Kurtz

I love to live. I love to war. I love extended metaphor.
I love it when the grass is green, the sun is hot, the air is clean.
I love to laugh the hours away.

I love your ignorance to time. I love it when a poem rhymes;
and when the rhythm fits, I love to sing it to the stars above.
I love to puddle-jump and sit, with cotton-candy-joy, in it;
and breathe away the crying clouds that cover terra-firma,
shrouding you in grey and black and white.

I love to wonder why a curve is not a line, and does it serve
its purpose, so curvaceous on the surface?
Love is straight and curves form plane to plane:
I love to wonder where it ends, and where it starts again.

I love to picture emptiness and fill it with a silent bliss,
and burst it over all the holes in picture-people,
playing roles that suit them to a 'T'.

I love to think that all the while I really had a crooked smile
but you sure never minded much, 'cause perfect teeth don't matter
such a lot when personality brings image to reality.

I love to know that through your frown the world will spin,
'cause sadness drowns itself in liquefied relief,
and happiness will follow grief, in single file, or two-by-two.

I love to loiter centuries, where, in cliche', we shoot the breeze,
attempting to assassinate the threat of blowing over it.

I love to gaze into your view. I love to dream alone with you.
I love the means, and so, the end . . .

I love to be your bestest friend.