That’s truly what it is,
Or perhaps something more
Who could find joy in the
rush of rushing
toward the end of glee,
while balancing on the rigid side of
Unless of course one believes
Perhaps the cut of the blade
ain’t all too bad. Each step
a rhythmic glide to the beats
of Chi-town’s finest
MC’s. Another chance to love,
in a different era
(k)new. It’s exciting to know that one’s
exit is just another existence waiting
to be birthed, somewhere out there
in the cosmos of our never-ending
lives. But what becomes of the heart that
expects to not only break
but to be broken
by the hands that hold it near
Does it flutter or stroke?
We all have to die.
It’s the natural state of things.
But I love to love because it marks
the birth of a strength that had long since
resided in the bowels and canons of blaqueer realities
from the atlantic shipping to Atlanta, Chicago, Los Angeles
and so on. Suicide.
A death of fear, a death of the fear of death, fear of pain or dying because
pain and dying are no longer possible when our livelihood is bound up in the cosmic
relationships of the components of the essence of us. Nothing but the essentials are needed.
That is it. This is it. Loving, daring to love, to be open, to be vulnerable, to dance on the blade of affections,
is the practice of freedom, is the practice of living, is the practice of never-ending existence
we condition our mortal bodies to the beauty, power and unbossed/bought/bothered nature of our souls.
To love, loving is to be committed to Suicide.
The death of the fear of having more