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One White Hair on my Head 

Μαριλένα Ζακχαίου 

poiisismedium4.jpg 

When I remove my hair-dye gloves post-retouch root treatment
I see the dye has still stained through onto my fingers
I count them ten and it matters because they’re not six or eleven
and although losing is never an embarrassment, there are only five
and another five, I cannot calculate the exact number of neural thoughts
it takes me to think this but they leave me one by one
as I scrub off the blue-black
and this becomes a parable
for something we might later discuss but what about this:

You may have suspected mister rat
ate too much and so died inside that kitchen cupboard
which no one ever opens unless
yes screwdriver for bolt or hammer for picture
but if you were to wake to some swinging stench in your heart on your ceiling
then surely you would become a poet and or a cynic.
We’re taught and deceived to        deify the dead,
equate purity with the immortal being
but how do we still praise potentiality so?

Too many small thoughts not enough fingers to count them on
so I have given up poetry. No, it’s your inherent property.
We’ll argue about necessary and sufficient,
the inherent and accidental,
whether or not all this applies to existence.
We’re good at that sort of thing.
Philosophical knowledge carried us this far
but I have cellulite and three wrinkles to follow you
through long elitist years of silent bookworm research
on bourgeois-book-smelly              good texts,
not enough. You may agree with this in part;
The gods you are defending others defended before
and you don’t want to marry me.

*** 

Το ποίημα άργησε λίγο να μας έρθει, καθώς ταξίδευε τόσες μέρες από την Αμερική. Αφιερώνεται σε όσους/όσες υποφέρουν από αυτές/αυτούς που μπερδεύουν θεωρία/πράξη, τέχνη/ζωή, ψεύδη/αλήθειες…