webnography

the interlocution of love is stamped
with objections, ridiculed in the face of a reality that nudges its nose into the fabric of time.
your mind, complacant as it is with the shape and texture of narcissistic redemption, unfurls at the first breath of blossoming. The unruly, white-bearded gentleman raises a single question in the crinkle of an eyebrow:
WHAT WOULD YOU DO TO KEEP ME FROM KILLING YOU?
(i’d live for that) he replied.
Your ventricles are atrophying.
I am recommending electroconvulsive shock therapy,
and a behavioral modification program
get with
(it.)

a redeemed and unscripted act-
it floats unspoken, lingers in between
the silences of conversation.
a heat. a spark.
flicker on, beautiful creature!
how you groom me with your ecstasy,
crumple my pain,
sprinkle it to the wind-
the air that sings in the
pulsing sky
hug the earth and wonder why
i don’t even know my own head,
scratch at the surfaces of things unsaid.
(bite the air and hope
for a single note
to settle in my throat)
now kiss you gentle, bite you hard,
exist suspended in a chrystal shard.
this is my softest touch.
this is my searching gaze.
all is full of love,
we number our days.

Here in between gasps:
My family, as I call them, rushes to provide answers, to sprawl truths before me like cards, turning them over one by one. I release the queen of hearts, worried my grip may have torn the edges. The best cards mark my future, an immediate future that calls to mind another place and time in which I was freely and savagely myself. Pretend this is what’s necessary, pretend I truly do adore the emancipation, the breath and space. I play all night long, hugging old friends tightly. Flirting with girls, small kisses, the wondering at what. At the end of the night, I fall asleep bathed in tears and moonlight, infinitely alone. The realization that I have wrung you out, the understanding that I am irrevocably damaged.

Persist to change.

But this: two crazy beings sliding into each other, complete and whole, more than the sum of their parts.
This: your eyes, luminous, an inch from my own, my hand grazing the side of your face.
And this: the brilliant tingle of your laughter, the warmth and the shudder.
That.

For happy afternoons spent rolling giggling leaves children.
In your best interest to unravel the past & walk away:
(but you
can’t.
and you
won’t.)
Won’t walk away? Why wait, wondering? Where would one walk to?
I have no answers, only fistfuls of time,
and unruly responses.
How I snap, growling, howling, sobbing tearing tear-streaked rage-
how it comes back, how it returns seeps in secret and understands.
Begotten not forgotten,
one in being what it would
when it could be how it should.
How it should,
in another space be less fear-fraught.
I am a mess.
I am sublime.
Havoc comes and goes with time.
With peace it creeps,
and gentler,
be all the joy you wish to know.

(the unknowing, the abyss, the fear of falling and the return to laughter. baseline. come down now here is 1, 2, 3 seconds back to bliss.)

Fell upwards and over! Reaching back to find the pinnacles you see- I am much more than all of some of me. This is how you felt when you weren’t aware. I could find myself null and not care. How to approach and how to broach? This is the beginning of tomorrow’s epic adventure. And this is the way you would call home itself here. I handed you the ending and I began with the scaffolding upwards alone you would call sky your home.