Sunday Driving, Not Arriving

What is love but the perfunctory reaction
Towards the given moods of infatuative affection?
I do not know, and

You, with such bastardized senses towards longing, yes
You've had enough, and I shall make myself a fool for this.

Autumn comes with promises
Of school and more of that crass love, all bodies
Reaching from a darker place for grappling legs and arms
And the kiss that will make the unthought-of alright.

Well, fellow, I want to grow up to be a hairdresser,
And this is only petulant because I want it to seem so, right now,
Though I don't want you...and I've often said such to myself--

Yet when you go home again, to someone that expects you, and I'm
Lying here in the aftermath of drunken kisses, know
Still that I will never be angry with you.

In my mind we can sit under that warped and gnarled tree
Where Bronson would get Nathaniel to speak, bribing
Him with an apple. Am I bribing you or is this some degenerate
Form of love?

I never want to be angry at anyone anymore, and I take
What I can get. It's not all that I can get yet it is
All that I want--
Right now there are these

Blue forms above the wall and I make-believe the stories
About my history. This is Walden and I slap
Away the fish with my feet and you're around
To see what I mean. His house was fired (Henry David's), gone yet
We could waddle along that foundation and pretend along

With the stars that bolt
Themselves into the ground like the sediment of
Electricity that is here, and all of that silly

Nature
Will reach up with viney limbs and kiss each
Of our personal desperations
In forgiveness for wanting the pixies to be so selfless.

Hey, boy...Love ya. Don't tell anyone