It hurt to be real
Fatigue was light and low
Down we fell
Down we fell
Our lyrical spit kind of crackles, or wiggles, like your eyebrows, like her grin—
Slides, slooms (your lips)
I was an Indian Princess, wrapped in gold leather kelp, glitter confetti and electricity
Regal in my throne
A precarious peach on a symmetrical vine
Our hearts stopped beating
You pumped us back to life
Swearing all the while that this was the Europe we understood from the storybooks
I got cottonmouth from waiting for each and every one of you, sickness
Styrofoam helmets colliding in a ring
Not to be believed, our contact
(I can’t believe we just touched)
the sheer lucidity of the side of the warehouse where I realized, as I was walking, that this was in fact air in my lungs and rancor in my retinas
stop everything.
Once more, for emphasis.
Peanut Butter.
And then the world poured out, liquid, from the webbed, sore crevices between her forefingers. Green and blue like land and sky on a map covered everything: moss, mud, clay, damp world that would be a blue spring, all to some kind of guitar song. And even though her lids were heavy and her back was tired and there was no love, really, between the commas or beneath the fingernails our girl Gaea didn’t cry but instead tried to summon marvel. Requisite and unabashed and expected and jubilant and righteously indignant joie de vivre, know what I’m saying brother?
Trying to follow the Brother Ali Code: I'ma be alright, you ain't gotta be my friend tonight. Ick.
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