young revolutionaries

on stage, the black leather jacket cusping the neck that clinches from the cold, embracing the spirit that sophisticates from the cold, the cold cool fall wind that refreshes childhood reveries, she on stage, up turned collar, straight legged and action ready, alluring, violent, semi-erotic, but never lenient, never fulfilling. i loved her for she was not me.

pale, mild, modern, preparing tea in the garden, hand at the latch. now in the shadow; now reclining in the sun. a moment to one's self, a moment away from the crowd, away from the complex structures, from the complexities of the city-garden. now, a time to be empty, a moment to grasp at dust in the light. a moment for childhood reveries to brand the heart with enduring passions. grasp at these bird-souls that fly towards relation. relations that require information to be discarded - at alarming rates she throws out the excess. there i saw her with paisley, and brought hyacinths for refreshment. her mouth moved in shapes of words, she while tearing the veil in two. i was asleep but my heart was awake.

incarnation speaks the word, personalities fold, unfold, and refold, i become what i behold while the quasi-spiritual run from the difficulties of friendship. i shout from the streets, warning against these grammatical errors that stifle love, these insinuating arguments of lesser intents, these double-guesses that run rampant in the conflicted souls of the believing. you are all that God has to give. young revolutionaries, we embrace the world, we own it, we kiss it, we find it.