To Love, Loving


Suicide

That’s truly what it is,

must be.

Or perhaps something more

sadistic.

Who could find joy in the

face flushing

blood whirling

rush of rushing

toward the end of glee,

while balancing on the rigid side of

surgeon-turned-coroner’s

knife?

Suicide.

Gotta be.

Unless of course one believes

in reincarnation.

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,

live,

laugh differently

in a different era

aura

me.

A residual,

continual,

un/becoming..something/one/else

(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

and dear

forever-ish?

Does it flutter or stroke?

Suicide.

No doubt.

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.

M E

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

life

self

freedom.

Swear

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