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I don’t want to be
that negotiation,
that yin and yang
with clean-cut edges
of life arriving
in increments

I don’t want to be
that symmetry
of knowing and undoing,
the landscape where
the tamed madness of
the sky flatlines
and it’s taboo to elect
innocence over jadedness

for I do not love to fall
within the bell curve,
I love that outlier love,
that spike in the stats love

and I dream in exceptions

I am an exponent
of a past life

give me a destiny
sealed with omniscience
as the sum of my choices
but with a little corner stage
and a blank page
to accommodate
an ad-libbed springtime,
an uncontrived connection
with another lost soul
who is friends with the thesaurus
and eats bebop for breakfast

turn me into
a radioactive verse
that rips through
the concrete monochrome,
pulls up the blinds and
stumbles on greatness
like a drunk in the rain

devil’s advocating
in concentrated doses
to expose the purity
of your truth,
of every truth

I’d like to
yarn-bomb the status quo,
seduce wildfires and become
the swirling, unpredictable
passion of desert storms,

the oblation,
the second wife of reason,
the spontaneous dance aboard
the train to revolution,
the badass ending
and the clamorous call
for encore
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“Organic Riverbed Elopement” by photographer Jess Hunter

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