and I stepped on it.
I heard its little head pop and crunch.
There was love juice on my shoe.
I heard love dripping in the basement and I almost threw up.
I hear love on my radio all the time.
Some people try to analyze it
and they write it all up in newspapers
just like term papers.
They need a reason to write term papers.
I need a reason to carve up love,
all greasy and hot from the oven.
I eat sweet dark love.
I chew it up in my mouth until it is
grainy liquid pulp
and then I suck it down my throat.
Some people think I mean sex.
Sex?
I saw sex in a dream.
Sex is not at all what I mean.
Sex is a liquid pool, an inner ear,
love is the brittle confusion
no scheme, not an idea of the flatulent brain,
not jargon.
Love crawls and begs and disappears.
It’s the suicide in you that you don’t do
and the ability to withstand pain.

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Douglas Goodwin is a poet who came to prominence in the 80s, notably catching the attention of Charles Bukowski, who corresponded with and encouraged the young writer over a period of 10 years.
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