In the beginning 
there was instantaneous curiosity 
and the flash bang of energies.

There was magnetism, lightning.

Listening to words, 
poems became water songs 
and currents of connectivity 

raged forth.

Attempting to collect, 
the intentionality 
was unknown 
beyond intuition, 
beyond the 

pleasures of listen.

He once said, 
maybe 
this is 

how you cry.

Poems, 
crafted invocations, 
freely forming trans* 
-criptions from.

I can hypothesize parts 
of my attraction to loneliness, 

other parts to desperation, 
other parts to the 

quality of 
your silence.

Yes, how intimate to raise up, 
to rise in a stretch of the mind, 

shimmering my existence approximately 

into the small room 
of your ear.

It was a hot time, 
humid, 
moist, 

for me, 
at least.

There is more 
than one way 
to hot box 

a car.

I became instruments 
of sensuality and 
my own destruction.

Ganja and fire, 
with your consent 
I filled the pipe, 

my chest, 
and began to burn 
with illuminations.

Levels and layers of shine, 
I was becoming and unraveling 
and you were breathing.

Inhale and exhale, 
smoke, 
your lips, 

you were made 
into a cotton field.

I never asked, 
are you picking your self 

with your own hands 
or the gin?

Had I known that 
I might have been able 
to regulate my skin.

I cannot speak for yours, 
so much that I had lost mine 

in the illumination 
of my vulnerability.

I had tenderness inscribed 
like a not so secret wish 

across the lock points 
of my                            .

Perhaps I began to hope 
you might have a key 
to a few already, 

make some more later, 
I was ready for something.

But the night rode on 
into and away from itself 

as a horse too dark for me 
to see from the porch 

and you crossed 
into the fade.

Blind and brimming, 
I did not notice
 
the difference 
in your steps.

The wobble and easier 
way of your mouth curving,
 
it was not for me.

These were not gifts, 
but contributions.

You were intoxicated 
with Dionysian pleasure, 

I with the actions of release 
and thus a collision course 
full of mis.

Interpretation, 
speaking, 
feeli– 

I cannot regret that.

Power, 

the simplest action 
would have been 
silence, 

but the simplest desire 
was for a kiss.

Ful, 

the rejection was not 
a letter folded into a plane.

It did not land as softly 
as it was spoken.

Instead, 
the growing metaphors 
burst and fled.

Graveyard, 
I thought new life, possibilities; 
you thought of your dead, nostalgias.

Unknowingly, 
I had taken you back.

Unknowingly, I stood with you 
at a stone and saw you smile.

This would explain 
the heaviness of it, 

this would explain the depth 
of your surrender to the art.

Apparently my sobriety 
allows me to remember 

and your inebriation 
allowed you to forget.

Present and 
past tense, 

in the beginning 
there was the crackle 
of a storm, 

lightning.

Now there is 
the aftermath, 
silence.

So here, 
I am.

Sitting, 
watching, 
free.

siiaah: April 28th, 2015

Pronouns: She + They + Family + Names

Mxs. Isa Lee Love Jones René