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1 " you came in slowly like the fogand consumed me. "
― AVA. , this is how you know i want you.
2 " Prison MoonFour a.m. work duty and I beginmy solitary trudge from outer compoundto main building. A shivering guard,chilled in his lonely outpost, strip searchesme until content that my inconsequential nudity.poses no threat and then whispersthe secret code that allows me admittance into the open quarter-mile walkway.I chuff my way into another dayas ice glints on the razor wireand the rifles note my numbed passage,silent but for my huffs and scuffleon the cracked, slippery sidewalk A new moon, veiled in wispy fogand beringed in glory, hangs over the prison, its gaudy glow taunting the halogen spotlights.The moon’s creamy pull upsetssome liquid equilibrium within meand like tides, wolves and all manner of madmen, I surrender disturbed by the certainty that under the bony luminescence of a grinning moon The lunar deliriums grip meand I howl--once, then again, andsurely somewhere an unbound sleeper stirs, penitence is dying a giddy death.I shake myself saneand as the echoes hangin the frigid air I explainto the wild-eyed guard that convicts, like all animals under the leash,must bay at the beauty beyond them. "
3 " moonlight disappears down the hillsmountains vanish into fogand i vanish into poetry. "
― Sanober Khan , A Thousand Flamingos
4 " We can stick anything into the fogand make it look like a ghostbut tonightlet us not become tragedies.We are not funeral homeswith propane tanks in our windows,lookin’ like cemeteries.Cemeteries are just the Earth’s way of not letting go.Let go.Tonightlet’s turn our silly wrists so far backwardsthe razor blades in our pencil tipscan’t get a good angle on all that beauty inside.Step into thiswith your airplane parts.Move forwardand repeat after me with your heart:“I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself.”Make love to melike you know I am betterthan the worst thing I ever did.Go slow.I’m new to this.But I have seen nearly every city from a rooftopwithout jumping.I have realizedthat the moondid not have to be full for us to love it,that we are not tragediesstranded here beneath it,that if my heartreally brokeevery time I fell from loveI’d be able to offer you confetti by now.But hearts don’t break,y’all,they bruise and get better.We were never tragedies.We were emergencies.You call 9 – 1 – 1.Tell them I’m having a fantastic time. "
― Buddy Wakefield
