in a landscape of desperation.
Because, only the devil can negotiate with God,
I have sold my soul, times ten thousand, in the hopes that diplomacy breathes reparation-
-to make right, the imaginary.
I have discovered there is no "I" in love
And yet, the "I" in my rebounding notion of love, admittedly, forsakes what "we've" learned again and again ...
... while trying to appease the demand of an imaginary debt.
That the i, that the i, that the i, as Rimbaud said:
is (always) another whom the i, whom the i, whom the i, is (always) trying to forget.
And now, it rains outside and my window is open.
The silver curtain does majestically bloom in the wake of the breeze,
Sending a shiver of undeserved ease, through the demurring grey dress
on the doorknob of my room.
The curtain is pewter. And it doesn't blossom.
And i don't want to be alone, but neither do I want to be with the crowd that forgets, that the i, that the i, that the i, is another it hasn't found yet.
Both father of pragmatic scope, and infinite kindness of mother.
Blame's always lost in a sea of hope, and hope's always lost in the deluge of mercies we are too unforgiving to uncover.
And i you love, and you i love, as another.
Even when we are either, going for our own jugular.
Like a truffle tuned boar.
Like a mad dancing whore.
Like the red cape of a matador.
Like paradise lost in a concentric circle of hell.
(What was paradise before the running of blood
When all manner of things would be well?)
Like the sigh of goodbye, infinite and infinitesimal
When someone has already been all that you could hope for
Sufficed, suffused to say:
As fate intertwined,
too late--or too lately--to understand
That the things that happen before our time
Have already made us
in our own image.