Poetry For Our Time

Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason. -Novalis


with 2 comments

Total free-write. Felt I had to warn.


It came in a gold box. An assortment of 16. The fancy kind. Godiva. Wrapped in one of those stretchy elastic ribbons so that it looks elegant while still remaining practical. Another outcome of the recession. Because it would simply be wasteful to send ribbons that had to be retied, and what receiver of fine chocolates would go through the effort of retying the ribbon, only to untie it whenever they wanted another morsel of that deliriously succulent sweet treat? Yes, the elastic almost reminds me of those napkin-rubberband contraptions at Japanese restaurants, well, Japanese restaurants in training, if you will, the kind out in suburbia in the Midwest far away from any real Japanese dining experience (because I live in a big city and can now use chopsticks without the rubberband and the napkin contraption and feel so high and superior that I can say this now, or at least this is the pretentious city persona I have a tendency to take on when it fits my whims and runs like a joke but you know is a bit true). I had a birthday party at Benihana once. And a Turnabout dinner. God, why did we ever think that was classy. Until you eat fish eggs that look like mini gushers but just spit oil, you haven’t had real sushi. Or eaten raw tentacles at a Sicilian restaurant in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, two stops away from Coney Island, the place that Franz Ferdinand once wrote about in that song, the love letter that drifts off into whiny animated dream…


But where were we? Oh yes, chocolate. So you sent me chocolate. Indeed, it was a nice gesture. I love chocolate. I had 5 pieces already. Honestly, flowers would have lasted longer. I can’t eat flowers. Unless you send some exotic, probably illegal, South American kind where in some cultures it is custom to eat flowers, or at least arrange them on dishes in France so that they brighten the plate up a bit, but everyone knows that immediately after the food comes and you comment on how lovely the plate looks, you politely move the flowers to the side, even though they are often delicious enough looking to eat.


But the chocolate. I guess chocolate could say “I love you.” I guess it could also say “You’re a glutton,” or just “Hey, I know you like chocolate.” But it doesn’t say everything. And a pretty box of (expensive) chocolate with a gold elastic ribbon that is not exotic flowers from South America or a fancy French dinner that comes with flowers as a decorative measure doesn’t mean that I automatically love you too, even though I do love chocolate, which makes this a bit confusing, because you would assume that I would transfer my love of the product to the love of the giver of the product, in this case being chocolate, and that if I love that then I will love you. But I can’t just love you for chocolate, or gold elastic ribbons, or all the “I love you”s in the world. In fact, I don’t think I KNOW what could make me love you, but it isn’t in the brand name chocolates (which are delicious, by the way, because who doesn’t love chocolate?), or anything gold, even the fake gold that just comes spread on paper that wraps boxes tied with elastic ribbons. I think the best way for you to find out, is to show up at my door, with flowers, from anywhere, because I bet you couldn’t even find the kind from South America, especially not this time of year. But yes, if you simply just showed up, flowers in hand. And asked.


Written by TheUndomestic

February 6, 2009 at 5:06 am

Posted in Uncategorized

2 Responses

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  1. You have a knack for starting somewhere and ending up perfectly with a message and everything. Wonderful.


    February 6, 2009 at 4:52 pm

  2. Oy, I’m glad you think so. 🙂


    February 6, 2009 at 5:35 pm

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