Full of snarling want, tamed to soft weeping under my pillow.

Sleep for one hundred years if you must, but be sure to be packed and ready
for when you awake!

###

The clock strikes like a viper. Time to jump.

How to do it?

By leaping blindly into the no idea.

All you need is a good running start, pumping the legs so hard and fast that when you get to the edge of the cliff the momentum of the wanting overrides the inertia of the not yet sure, carrying you over the side in a flaming burst of what the fuck did I just do?

###

Turns out the answer lies in the crook of the elbow held gentle in the soft embrace tucked neatly within the question.

###

Check out a high school yearbook from 1952. Everyone looks 35 and dead to themselves despite the shiny cheeks and smooth corners of the eyes. The only thing left is the longing…cringing wet spots on the pant leg of propriety.

How does the dying happen so early, before the cocoon has even been pierced?

###

Flesh the fish flayed fresh, a fillet field day.

###

Destiny clips along at a dreadful pace, winking lasciviously at the mayhem.

No longer riding shotgun, “I can’t” has been relegated to the side of the road, ass-kicked out the passenger door to steep and stew in the drainage ditch.

Walking tall, height acquired instantly from getting up off all fours, I grow to my original stature.