i ride in the tank of the notion of love believing
love's assent will surely swerve around
these bodies left stiff or wounded in the square, so righteous,
love's tracks four lanes wide through the aftermath
of love's mortars, spent pennies abandoned at the curb
where boys once tossed pennies but now tote guns.

i ride in the tank of the judgment of love,
a street sweeper in atget's paris
who pockets flattened coins of the realm
to spend on newsreels of love's dictator du jour
who is always passion, what ever the name;
the same coup d'etat that stays up late
devising new tortures for dissenters
who symbolize the whimsy and imagination
of the monarchy. monstrous sculptures of gum bands -

    resembling passion's tank's treads,
    the o of love's mouth,
    and the emptiness of its stomach -

collect around the red or tiennenman square
of love's battleground's lady liberty.

from "The Sex Project," a novel

Jan McLaughlin