Notes on Virtue

I love the world through you,
that’s delusional,
love is violent choosing like island politics.
I’ve been looking for someone to guide my hands,
asking questions on bathroom walls.
Aristotle might know a few things...

Ethics in volutio carry wine but not water

Macedonian nicomachia is a clever fettering fever-

I'm dosing drugs and sleeping in caves, 

my back hurts but you only hear me complain about my head.

A troll in the corner chimes in,

he's still ripening, but at least he's got options.

Age measures mothers who absorb flowers and philosophy.

Map by my scalp and spit in my mouth,

I'll taste your good, telos, now head south.

----------------

Humph I sigh, I’ve grown hairier,
and if you don’t believe that Aristotle was wrong,
look at the walls of my elementary school-
Feline finality is fate draped on Christ’s shoulders and I love myself instead.
My grandfather’s in a mousetrap like photo lens war vet professor,
his tail’s been around my neck for years,
and Aristotle’s off laughing in mutter by the wine jug.
Dreaming boys with little fists lick at windows,
and I’m still unpacking-
case with only that warmth in my ear to steam green eyes to blink,
these dry lips to bleed then love-
Someone’s beard is telling them all the answers,
but I’ve been thinking lately,
do I have enough habits?
because I’ve built a corner out of all mine.
And I’ll tell you, if a man is defined by the company he keeps-
I must be a pirate.
Broken boots on sneering meek feet, whiskey drunk and none to eat.
Princely paupers with golden filth teeth spitting venom, words, and beats.
Telos! Take me, I’ll be witty the whole way down.