On True Love: Ten for Today

I couldn’t say I’ve ever come across a true love or ever will. I’ve had great love. I’ve had potentially tru-er love–but for the right person showing up under the wrong circumstances or vice versa. At least how I imagine the right person. How could I know without a long, leisurely test drive?
 
But true love is truly a cultural marketing scam. And it’s not for mere cynicism that I write that. I’ve no complaints about the loving in my life–all shades and degrees of it. I’ve slid in and out of love’s grasp by choice and force both. Yet, true love seems to have eluded me only because it’s been beamed into my brain by invisible designs since birth–without explanation.
 
Like waking up every day, there’s an impulse to arise and act, get the day started even when you don’t want to or know why you do. We just live as if there’s no choice, most of us. It’s incredibly difficult to kill a healthy human being, more than you’d think. That same blind instinct–get up and live–impels us to find true love without even knowing what the fuck that is.
 
No one believes Disney, so I’m not referring to that conception–princes and princesses and shit. Chemistry, kindred souls, soulmates, and other hollow terms language has fed us to conceive of the truth in true love make little sense. Like it must be fate. In myth and religion, there is an element of the divine in all truth, in language itself–in the beginning, there was the word.
 
And yet, all children are indoctrinated in the one true love story, even as they grow up to see the truth in that lie. It lies like death everywhere, not just in movies or television or books. It permeates culture like a dream or a virus, thinly veiled and ever present–potentially lethal. 

Childhood’s Forest

  
  

  

Her honey-bliss lips, newly bee-blessed, set real people free.

All who tasted described a low grade sympathy lighting dark,

dubiously melding wind and song, fear and safe homecoming. 

 
And then we grew to us, no longer children speaking true lies.

Stories told tied us to the road, beat-boot trodden dusty paths 

leading home to meet two strangers, once lovers kissed true.

 
Now flash-blue sparks sidelong, like ghosts slipping peek-bye.

Glass tags filter your image as pastel strip-thin pressed clouds

spied at vision’s corner, blowing kisses once given free people.