A golden age of love songs and we still can't get it right. Does your kiss really taste like butter cream? To me, the moon's bright face was neither like a pizza pie nor full; the Beguine began, but my eyelid twitched. "No more I love you's," someone else assured us, pouring out her heart, in love (of course)— what bothers me the most is that high-pitched, undone whine of "Why am I so alone?" Such rueful misery is closer to the truth, but once you turn the lamp down low, you must admit that he is still the one, and baby, baby he makes you so dumb you sing in the shower at the top of your lungs.
Rafael Campo - 1964-
While jogging on the treadmill at the gym, that exercise in getting nowhere fast, I realized we need a health pandemic. Obesity writ large no more, Alzheimer's forgotten, we could live carefree again. We'd chant the painted shaman's sweaty oaths, We'd kiss the awful relics of the saints, we'd sip the bitter tea from twisted roots, we'd listen to our grandmothers' advice. We'd understand the moonlight's whispering. We'd exercise by making love outside, and afterwards, while thinking only of how much we'd lived in just one moment's time, forgive ourselves for wanting something more: to praise the memory of long-lost need, or not to live forever in a world made painless by our incurable joy.