The small places,
that were alive...
& now they are what Ghosts speak of...
memories of what once used to be,
& the hopes that it might become again,
invented with the perfection only desire
can will to life...
even the dogs hold a sleepier dream...
& the paint fades to a paler blue...
& the black of night
is
Wilder.......
& a girl on her bicycle damns the strength of all men into hell,
because *she*
is a girl,
& *we* can go fuck ourselves,
if we won't let something like that
simply
exist...
there are warrants far more damning than what have fallen on you, sweet sister...
& although vengeance is no comfort
it may be that when all items of hate & injustice are resolved
that only freedom remains...
but you, my sweet Joan upon Flames...
the distance burning you with Sunlight
& what life Does with
it...
oh.. O..
you do not have the patience for time...
because
you
are
stronger
than
Her.....
Conception & Death...
a & b..
they are small, because they are just the same as everything in between...
one pebble at the foot of the old whitewashed fence...
one speck of dust, drying the eye as sight thrusts through the beauty that dust creates...
one instance of distance, & the past becoming greater
& the future weird in how large it can become...
when Hell comes, woman,
i want you on my side...
if you ever say to me, or Us..
"hey!! i am the chick on the bicycle!!"
we will surround you with swords, facing outwards,
& whatever would touch you would die.
i suspect, since you are clearly a warrior, that you & the things which are greater than swords
are among the surroundering that drives us to what we hold most dear...
we offer up what we are, when it is said we must.
& i do not know when poetry & bullshit & fear & death & hope & turn into the question of bullshit & death,
but you have passed through there, already...
so when time threatens to return us
to what we wish our memories actually Were..
i want you on my goddamned side...