in case of emergency

you were filling out an emergency contact form and decided to list me as a contact. for emergencies.

the form asked for my relation. it provided an entire list of options in a drop-down box on the web page you were visiting.

not one of the titles offered in the list was ‘boyfriend’. boyfriends, apparently, do not make good emergency contacts. we joked about there being an ‘embassy’ as a possible role. my brow lifted into creases and ridges. my mouth was nothing but teeth. i liked the sound of embassy. it sounded important. official. the stuff emergency contacts are made of.

ultimately, you chose ‘other’ as my relation to you.

offended at first (though, not quite sure why) i thought about this to myself (is there any other way to think about something?) and i repeated it in my mind…over and over and over and…

other
other
other

and

i’m your other

and

i’m YOUR other

and

yes, i’ll come when i hear the call.

because that’s what we do for each other.

Grateful

We are not as animals as we once suspected. We are not as primal as we long to be.

We are softer than the beasts within the wood and field; more mild than the creatures of the sea. We are tame when placed beside the bugs that breed ferociously.

Only in our disrespectful mimic and our mime, do we become ‘as animals’ in heat.

But I see you. I know you, now. We sleep, muscles bent, tendons curled, stomachs filled with the warm milk of a curious world. Every flat surface of our kingdom, covered, with unopened letters from unqualified senders. The dishes, never dirty, only fondly cherished by the remnants of our love, make the kitchen seem less perfect and perhaps more human.

…which is what we are, after all.

Magna Carta ut Ego

Be sure of this; our Wonder will not cease.

Our life may see decay and god knows what…

The broth of our fellowship may thin within the flat center of our bowl.
The wine of our interests may sour inside the precious metal of our chalice.
The meat of our devotion may spoil in the open air of our great hall.

You will assault me in my chamber, but I will hold.
You will raise siege towers against me, but I will hold.
You will infiltrate my defenses, but I will hold.
You will defile my body and spirit, but…I will hold.

I will not be afraid to teach the language of compassion, though it has become a forgotten tongue.
I will not be afraid to see ugly meanings in beautiful things, if it means that beauty will then be seen by eyes of opposition.
I will not be afraid to prick and pull at the scabs we have developed over time, if by doing so we allow the truth to flow over scars of memory.
I will not be afraid to speak those blessed blasphemies that conjure up the devil’s wet intent, if those hell-bent on saving souls are for a moment frozen in their intellect.

You will comfort me with lies, but I will hold.
You will lower my eyes to your bosom, but I will hold.
You will inflate me, as is your offense, but I will hold.
You will revel in my broken bones and afflicted soul, but…I will hold.

The bread of our acknowledgement may go stale atop our cluttered plates.
The crumbs of our agreement will be tossed about and out our hungry mouths.
The dogs of our indifference will be satisfied beneath the feast of our table.

Our love may be betrayed or blemished, but…

Be sure of this; our Wonder will not cease.

Entrance not for Everybody

Outside, in the wet streets, cold air, stiff limbs, skeleton leaves, I hear of routes to meet you.
The smell of passage, the burning tire smell of audacity, is crawling up the steps and under the door.
I’m leaving the lights on these nights. I’m drowning myself in the killer.
Light.
I’m reading fine words, and fine percentages of words I do not understand, proof of my ability to focus.
But, I set my percentages down on the arm of this oversized chair, to write my mind.
So I lose.
And I listen to the sound of ways to see you.
They are convincing, like my friends downtown. They sound slick and impoverished, and those are appealing attributes to the elite or abused.
These channels of kinetic travel, become excited with you.
They share their sentiments.
They follow their tracks to a destination.

Inside, the flattened carpet, calm space, scratched skin, skeletal mind, I hear outside, and wait.

The darkness within cannot be extinguished.

I do not leave this place.

Modularity

The girl at The Gap says “you’re back” as I set the sensors off with a chime.

“I’m just waiting for my girl” I reply with a bit of automated charm.

I’ve been pacing in ovals for fifteen minutes. Had I the body of a humble Asian boy, my eyes would be affixed on material pursuits, made in another land by hardworking, albeit, underage hands.

There is music above me, from the corners of my shopping box waiting room.
No magazines or water tanks with paper cups.
Just, mannequins and music; all of it whispering sweet nothings.
All of it manhandled by eager teenagers.
All of it waiting as well to be seen and heard.

These melodies and plastic amputees, are seeking loving homes, like me.

She steps out of the dressing room with bargains draped over her forearm and the foresight of thrifty ancestors before her. She never asks what I think or how it looks. She’s too confident for that sort of curiosity.

There are mirrors behind us now, and none of them tell the absolute truth.

The girl at The Gap says “thanks, come again”.
She grins with a grin that thinks we’re finally going home.

But she’s wrong.

My home is leaving with me, arm in arm.

 

Observation

When the wolf comes down from the highlands, it never holds its breath. Instinct dictates it must take in the warmer air – the fuzzy stench of valley life and dull scent of passive death – deep into its lungs. The adaptation is easy. The wolf does not wear masks. It simply becomes something new. It is not like the dog that howls at the moon with ineffectual abandonment. When the wolf cries, the moon listens, and the sun remains in slumber.

When the girl comes out from the woodwork, it never holds its breath. Instinct dictates otherwise, but the girl is wiser than her impulses. It does not fear the colder air within the foreign heights. The adaptation occurs. The girl does not fit the masks. It simply becomes someone new. It is not like the boy that curses the moon with trivial pursuit. When the girl cries, the moon cries with her, and the sun begins to shine

Gluttons of Liberty

America has been seated at the buffet table of Entitlement for so long, she cannot distinguish between a Right and a Privilege. Blind, deaf, dumb, and immobile from her own obesity, she does little to object when you remove one or both from the bill of fare. Ironically, she is starving for substance.