Surprise, Surprise,
I found Cupid at a Bar…
made all the more absurd and disturbing,
by his public drunkenness and his blatant nudity,
…plus the quiver and bow hung crooked across his wings… […]
Conversations at the Bar #1
(When Cupid Has A Few Too Many)
Surprise, Surprise,
I found Cupid at a Bar…
made all the more absurd and disturbing,
by his public drunkenness and his blatant nudity,
…plus the quiver and bow hung crooked across his wings…
Bleary-eyed Cupid, Leery-eyed Cupid,
squinted at me, and at all the nuanced couples moving and mingling,
like little pawns across his chessboard,
with every awkward gesture and each misjudged move,
- a toast in honor of his ego.
And so it was without warning that Cupid fumbled for his bow
and drunkenly fired into the crowd…
[…certain that there’s always someone lovesick ready to be lovestruck…
…certain that there’s always a person’s passion ready to be charged on credit…
…certain that there’s always a quota of Valentines-Day-Roses to be clipped & shipped…]
But I was shocked…
because no one seemed to really notice Cupid,
they only seemed to notice each other’s makeup, madeup, plumage,
and no one seemed to hear Cupid’s repetitive sighing,
they only heard the clinking of ice in their half-emptied glasses of courage;
and they only heard their hot whispers promising hotter nights.
(that rarely, if ever, had the chance of dawning)
I was confused to find Cupid acting in such a way,
And I was surprised to find that no one ever flinched when Cupid’s arrow hit,
At most, they only scratched or twitched, at some soothing, biological itch,
or they smiled and beamed, from some glowing, genetic need…
I took a seat next to Cupid
and ordered a round for the two of us.
Cupid smiled at my star-struck gaze, and gave me an appreciative nod.
“No mortal has bought me a drink in as long as I can remember.
In fact, it is rare that a mortal has ever given me more than a pause,
beyond those acclamations they can only offer during their most ecstatic of exclamations.”
He downed his drink, and leaned in close as he gave the bartender a signal for another.
“You know, normally I don’t do this…but you look to be a good guy…
So, for you, I will do this most special, this most privileged, of favors…
“Who is it here that your libido swings towards?
Who here could you rapture, like a saint in sinner’s clothing?
Just give me the word,
and with one, simple, arrow she’s yours for the having.”
He fumbled for his bow and quiver, and I subtly pushed them away.
He ignored my move, or possibly he never noticed, and continued to rant,
“So, who is it you want? How about that leggy, cherry-bomb, sizzling over there,
I bet ten minutes with her and she could blow you straight out the stratosphere!
Or what about that soft and soulful star, with those midnight, velvety lips?
Oh, on those lips you could dream of every universe and heaven, real and conceived!
…Or maybe, instead, you see that subdued, sublime, siren, by the jukebox?
Sure, I can tell she’s serenading you; the way her lips shape these romantic lyrics.
She’s hypnotizing you with her hips –subtly swaying them to that beat underneath.
Yes, I can see it in your eyes, you are outlining her curves with your boldest brush!
“So, my good friend, which beauty do you want –
…or, perhaps, you want them all?!”
He boasted with laughter that I found embarrassing,
and yet, irresistibly intriguing…
I did my best to suppress my disappointment in the Cupid I had discovered…
and I did my best to redirect all that south-bound-blood back to my north-thinking-head…
I tried to tell him that he had me, and everything entailed, all wrong:
“I don’t think your arrows are meant for all these random flights of fancy.
I’ve come to believe that every arrow must mean something special.
That if any arrow is to matter anything at all,
than every arrow must represent
all that I find to be wholly-life-lovingly-unique.”
Cupid appeared both frustrated and confused,
So I continued, with desperations to elaborate my point.
“What I am hopefully saying, my dear, rosy, Cupid,
Is, if you are to help me, and not to harm me,
then you must be as disciplined as you are passionate,
you must treat your arrows as if they are of a finite number,
….and most importantly,
each arrow must represent the values I desire the highest -
and not simply the lusts I hunger for the hardest…
Cupid remained quiet…and now more withdrawn.
“Am I making sense?
“All I’m doing is mimicking my Heroes: those Romantics,
whose shoulders I sit upon whenever I pen my tributes…”
Cupid stared into the distance as I paid for our drinks,
and before I left, I gambled on one last plea:
“You know all these arrows you’ve shot so wildly into every crowd?
Why not take a moment, and watch these couples you’ve managed to hit.
…And tell me, dear, spirited, Cupid,
what are their odds of any kind of lasting, fulfilling, love,
is it just one night… is it just two days…
or are they a rarity, and they last longer than a month?
…And then tell me, dear, dispirited, Cupid,
“Of those all the hapless, innumerous, hearts…
How many were better off, before your arrows intervened?”
Cupid never answered…
he only stared into his empty drink…
and quietly signaled for another round.
M. L. Michael
02/22/11
About…
Every Breath Poetic 