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Pearson Bolt May 31
the first time i choked on tear-gas,
we were standing in the heart of the Empire.
the scent of capsaicin still smarted
as we fished our medic bags for water-bottles
to flush our comrades’ eyes. we did not weep
for the revolt. we were at peace even as we knew,
beyond a shadow of a doubt,
we were ******.

the black bloc, three thousand strong,
had raged through the streets of D.C.
overturning dumpsters, torching limos,
taking hammers and crowbars
to Bank of America windows
with gleeful abandon, a sense of endless,
militant joy. it would be
anarchy or annihilation.

the spontaneous insurrection
of the antifascist demonstration
was an inferno hotter than the dumpster-fires
we’d left like signal-flares in our wake.
for a moment, there, we could feel
the ******* quaking as our feet
shook the Earth, stepping
in-and-out of Lovecraftian shadows,
eldritch horrors of doom gloating over us.

but we’d been kettled,
cordoned by cops in riot gear,
cut-off from all possible routes of escape.
faceless phantoms clutching cudgels
to bludgeon our conflagration
into submission. and then
the call came. “this way! this way!
we found an exit!”

immediately, the cops swarmed in,
their momentarily vindictive arrogance
shattered by the freedom that rang
like church-bells in a half-a-hundred voices.
“this way! this way! we found an exit!”
motorcycles turned down the alleyway,
sirens screaming, echoing off the tenement halls
and only one of us possessed the sense to intervene.

for a moment, she stood alone.
a single figure, holding up her hands
and shaking her head, refusing to let
the ******* advance. but courage
is infectious. a moment later,
another joined her, then another,
until all of a sudden a half-a-dozen
of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting,

no pasaran! you shall not pass!”
we waited for the billy-clubs to rain
hell upon our shoulders, but still
we remained steadfast, anchored
by the weight of our conviction
and the hope that even if we fell
the rest of the bloc would escape
to wreak havoc another day.
Pearson Bolt May 30
i know no bliss like getting lost within
the endless expanse of your genius.
trace the chasms of space-time
right to their origins: a big bang
rupturing split atoms, sending
every ounce of matter cascading
into the blossoming cosmos—
spiraling outward for all infinity,
unfurling like the petals
of some intergalactic carnation.
i cannot fathom a better metaphor
for the majesty of your psyche.
you are the monastery where i seek
solace from this miserable existence.
i could stand amidst these hallowed halls,
stretching out all around me,
admiring the stained-glass windows
set like so many precious stones
for all the days of my life
and still come away dumbstruck
by their effortless incandescence.
let me bend back the pages of your brain
like my favorite book: well-loved, highlighted,
and fit to burst with the scrawling pen
of my annotations. feed me, Dark Strider.
nourish the broken bits of my spirit.
wild and free, unbowed, unbent—
you answer to no one. you deserve
nothing more and nothing less
than a thousand-thousand poems
written to commemorate your existence.
you are an encyclopedic library displayed
in kaleidoscopic multicolor, i want to drop acid
and wander, psychedelic,
through your neurological pathways
from this day until my very last.
if i could, i would fold this world
like a map to bring me closer to you.
you incite deathless joy
and take away the pain.
your mind is the cathedral
where i finally find god.
Pearson Bolt Apr 13
i live to watch the words spill from you,
hot and sticky as your fingers work
their magic. slick from sweat,
frantically flicking, thrumming
out another string
of syllables,
eclipsing me with ellipses
blinking in the bottom
left corner of the screen
keying me in:
you’re still typing.

i am a ******,
afforded
a first-class seat
addicted to the way
you tease me
with your words:
gently.
slowly.
and also all at once.
i could hang
myself from the precipice
of your fingertips—
plying secret messages,
peep shows
for my eyes only.
you’re showing off,
and i can’t get enough.
Pearson Bolt Apr 11
tonight, the joy and
sorrow mingle, equal in
their tempered measure.
Pearson Bolt Apr 10
they say lightning
never strikes
in the same place twice.
an energy
the best minds
could not tame—
electricity shattering
amethyst atoms,
violent and brilliant
and free.

purple is the color of our energy.
firework flowers detonating
magenta and blueberry
at the periphery of the pages
where you spilled
your lavender blood
for my eyes only—
a display of intimacy
breathed in the quiet
of the witching hour
the first night we spoke.

your voice
resurrects.
you slice through white space
like a warrior goddess,
deft and dexterous
acid rain chaos
ubiquitous vengeance
upon your enemies—
cloaked in the raven-feather
mantle of Morrigan,
a phantom queen.

you bring death
from a thousand cuts
of your ball-point pen.
Pearson Bolt Apr 9
i nurse a cup of lukewarm coffee
as i sit on my front porch step
and watch the storm-clouds
close like fingers tightening
‘round open throats, strangling
sunny spring without so much
as a moment’s warning.
Florida rains
can come instantaneously—
blundering suddenly, unbidden
and entirely unwelcome.
the thunder sounds
of dolorous doom
as gloom returns to smother
the afternoon in its shadow.
lightning bolts jolt
me back to earth,
ripping me unceremoniously
from languid daydreams
of you and i camping
in the wilderness,
traveling cross-country
in a beatdown Jeep
with nothing but joy
to keep us company.
i empty the mug
in overgrown grass,
swiftly turn my back
on black clouds coalescing.
today, i fear i cannot bear
to watch the world weep.
Pearson Bolt Apr 8
i have stood amidst the stacks
in the Library of Congress, stared
up at all the books flanking the walls.
i tried to count, once. too many,
the more’s the pity. still,
at least i found a metaphor
for the way your mind unfurls
like the pages of my favorite book—
spine cracked, annotated notes
crowding the margins, dog-eared
corners creased to mark
the contours where i stopped
to linger.

splay my gaze across the parchment,
chasing consonants left and right
and back again. encyclopedic psyche,
blossoming as i play my fingertips
across the periphery of your philosophy.
a hundred-hundred questions spill
from me like a Rube Goldberg Machine,
one inquiry triggering the other
in an endless cascade of mystery.

if i cannot shrink myself down
and lead your white blood cells
into the fray, i will remain
to stitch your battle-scars.
watch as i spin
words like thread
weaving polysyllabic,
kaleidoscopic tapestries
if only to grant you
some measure of comfort.
and if these lines
can make your heavy heart
light, then they will tumble
like waterfalls from my lips
buoy you in their expanse
until you float upon the surface
light as air, iridescent.
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