The last time I saw you,
was the last time we spoke;
and the two words I said to you,
got caught in my throat.
So I'm writing you a letter
and I hope you get it safe.
Because the words that I write here
are written on my face.

She looks at you,
feathers still protruding from her mouth.

She's handing you a ticket to her way of thinking.
If you take it, you're in.
You have access to her mind;
unadulterated access.

Just renounce your humanity.

She's looking for a partner,
another wolf to connect with.

Be it for her.

She looks at you teasingly.

Take it.

Be one of her,
and she will give you everything.
She wants to dine with you on the flesh of the living.
She wants you to play with her.

Take it.

She looks at you,
feathers still protruding from her mouth.

For once I'm letting myself entertain the concept.
I'm mulling it over.
Because, I'm the glass-half-empty type.
It's not that I don't want a refill,
it is simply that I cannot get the attention of my server.
In the meantime,
the soda goes flat and the ice melts into it.
But unlike most, I have realized that drinking it leaves you with less.
I can be glass-half-empty, knowing that there is still some lukewarm liquid souping in the glass.
The problem is that I simply refuse to experience even the watered-down aspects of life,
for fear that that **** waiter never does show up.

I'm starting to dream in color
swimming in Silvia red night gowns
and dancing into silhouettes of purple and crimson.
psychedelic actually,
if you take the time to think within that perspective.
it's like a toned-down rave set in slow motion by overdose.
and where are you?
are you passed out on the lawn in front of some closed down swapmeet?
did the flicker of insomnia turn you off like a light switch you hadn't paid the bill for?
who now, will answer your phone or pay homage to your quips
or late night phone calls to God?
I wish I could say that I relayed the message
but my nerves never were enough.
I wonder if the angels ever picked up on the twisted games you played on their names.
Many people never bothered to decipher it all.
But on occasion I did.
When the time was convenient,
when the moments were dull.
I delved into it.
I tried anyhow.
Forgive me for never letting you pass.
For standing arms and legs wide apart to halt the inevitable.
I wish for so many seconds
that I was there to do something,
to show something,
some inkling of understanding through sarcastic grimaces.
To you, who will read this and play dead for flair,
may you call upon me from the imaginary casket when you get this.
Fore I do see that you could never leave like that.

I've payed my dues, so to speak, when it comes to being in your gestures and your manners and your rigid forms.
Now I believe is a time for movement,
for adjustment,
for freedom.
Since you have no sense of these terms,
I will ask you to pay full attention as I define them for you
in no uncertain language.

Movement is the outstretched arm towards another,
the subtle nuances of fingers upon hand,
or back
or lip;
the tiny twitches of a toe in beat also cleave themselves to this definition.

Adjustment is the shift between lines that adds to the complexity of a speech.
It is the new extra last minute bits of imagination introduced to a new dish,
or a conversation,
or in your case an institution.

Freedom, though it be plastered on every hall and shouted in the name of horrendous injustice,
is not what you have perceived it as.
You seem to be tricked by the simplicity of the word and have such lost its meaning.

Freedom is the gift that we are given by having the mind to interpret the sickness of this most insidious crime against humanity,
this marring of creativity,
this block of nonsense-
we receive via what you like to call 'Education'.

Sing softer to me,
Oh fading masterpiece of my own discrepancy.
Let the tremulous vowels resound furtively upon your delicate lips.
Fading swiftly we have only just begun to transcribe the messages underlying this fantastic fever.
So shiver with me in the cold of my own vacancy.
Trust that the smoke that escapes me now is only a product of my own frozen tyranny and that you are the foundation of this great work which I lay down my discrepancies upon;
the alter that I sacrifice my pride at.
These stone monoliths enclose my memories half-constructed,
the other a moiety of truth.

Stranger things occur to mock you darling in the subtle mornings of a rainbow's kiss.
I exist, only in this ever wanting,
I digress, into this mirror image of justification that we both missed on feelings outstretched.
Fading figments of ever-longing trepidation,
my love we are like the tears of the ocean;
over swept and baring no great elegance or depth.
Faster. Shall we traipse across the furrowed brows of our former keepers?
Or let lie the soft negligence of doubt?
Sinuous hopes, fears and phantoms play about the skirt of this magnificent oak that bares down upon us.
What of it's age and wisdom will it bestow upon our humble countenance?
Far be it me to describe such forbidden things.