roman a clef

orlando has come to me for an interrogation. i turned away responding 'why would you think that?' he asked me again. this has gone on for way too long, he says. guilt has not passed, neither has contempt. she asked me once again, "who are you?" i've lied before, i'll lie again, i've had practice, i've carried it all my life. it began when i was 12. orlando says, 'you've sabotaged yourself before, i know that you will do it again' absolutely not, there has been nothing to destroy. it has only been me the whole time. stupid and naive. fate has a different plan for me, not the one i wanted but the one i have to accept. you go on ahead, i'll try to catch up, but i've been stranded on this road for a while. just try to remember me when you get there. orlando says 'that is no way to think' it is the only way that i know how. nothing has proven me wrong.

and then i say: 'Books have always been things that have baffled me. i've always seen others reading, but i've always been passed over. i've been curious about how words are read, how those words make paragraphs, where the titles come from and the hands that hold them. i like hearing stories filled with plot twists, but have never thought of reading a book, novels or poems. some people ask me which on i like reading better, but i don't know the answer because i don't read. in the stories, i get very attached to the characters, i like listening to poems now, but epic stories are very emotional and seem to be the ones that have intrigued me the most. i should just get used to listening to stories because learning to read is impossible.' orlando doesn't understand. he sees the world through the eyes that have held and read a book so he can't see the world through my illiterate eyes.

the muse's manifesto

darkness creeps over the waves to make sure that i have not gone away. this place is not safe. it seems as though people are lurking around trying to make sure that i do not fall, but they dont know that i am already lying on the ground. sustenance does not come. trances happen, but the angels do not come. the floodgates await the river's early thaw. i used to be a down-home funk prescriber, but now its just an endless cycles of rain delays. all alone forever searching for an answer, screaming to be heard, but confusing their own need to listen. you don't have to try and make it on your own. begging god to give me solomon's wisdom. i can't stop my thoughts and close my eyes. this is the part that i can't get right. i have abandoned any other way around. i dug my grave and there are not blanks in the gun. goodbye friends, true love and happy endings.

melpomene's tear

falling upward

the recurrence is typical and expected. this time will be different. i won't succumb to the emotion that it wants me to endure. it wants me to be fractional and deficient. it wants me to thirst for what it preaches. two, pair, couple, duo, team. hopelessness sets in when Turan whispers in my ear and fixes my gaze on cupids bow greet a buccaes. the unit of measure is the moments spent trying to harmonize a solo. good enough is the inexorable sound of the void's echo when reaching out to take hold of the one she has molded for me.

wasting what matters on matters unnecessary. you always said that the time would come when things would not align with me, you, or the motives we share. no, not right now. maybe when the ice thaws the apprehension will become confidence, bane shifts to advantage. the hairs on my neck hold onto Sethlans' breath as he taunts and sneers.

contradiction/captivation

the great caper of robin goodfellow

maybe it is my nature, maybe i think too much, maybe believing gets me through. seeing everything from here makes the view fake and distorted. but i saw the gospel, i saw the facts that were laid at my feet, before my eyes. but it was a lie, a fiction, a myth, a fabrication, a deceit. what does that make me? a fool, a patsy, a chump, a loon, a sucker. i need reassurance. i need patience. to see what others see, to hear what others hear, not the superficial, but the testimony and the genuine. passions perish on the shit of the charlaton instead of the aching of the prolific visionary.