fascism (always comes for love)

fascism (always comes for love)

fascism always comes for love

fascists know that lovers always win every battle

the dictator’s mask and bellicose uniform

and fist pounding pleas for patriotism

are mere fanfare and arm-waving distraction

because words and allegiances pale mightily

against the pull of the heart and bone-deep

commitment that dulls all political fervor

lovers will sacrifice almost anything

in quest of rendezvous or tobetogether

their ears hearing only the voice of the other

their fingertips aching to be pressed just so

while the petty marshaling of troops and tanks

disappear in the edges of their lips-pressed gaze

fascism spawns marriage, fidelity, and monogamy

to erase the flush of lovers being lovers—because

fascism always comes for love

fascists know that lovers always win every battle

there is this thing of us and always (the indelible)

there is this thing of us and always (the indelible)

“I have not betrayed Julia,” he said.
O'Brien looked down at him thoughtfully. “No,” he said; “no; that is perfectly true. You have not betrayed Julia.”

1984, George Orwell

“And anyone who/Tried to deny you must be out of their mind”—

“Green Eyes,” Coldplay, A Rush of Blood to the Head

when the rats come for me

strapped in cages to my face

and commanded to eat my tongue

and feast finally on my eyes

i will not deny you in word or deed

and even if they pick me bone-clean

there is this thing of us and always

that can never be erased by such fascism

but this is no declaration of a martyr

nothing about heroism or righteousness

this is the naked facing of the indelible

that forces gravity to bow and oceans to calm

writer hermit vampire (artifice is a testament)

writer hermit vampire (artifice is a testament)

“She is enough.”—Harry Mitchell to David Norris, Adjustment Bureau (2011)

You're all humming live wires under your killing clothes.
Get over here, I wanna kiss your skinny throat—

“Wasp Nest,” The National, Cherry Tree

i am a writer

i am a hermit

i am a vampire

oh, yes, sure,

i may fall in love with the scent of you

no, i will fall in love with you

and you’ll feel the weight

of an ocean’s tide and Siren’s song

and when we are lying together

and i am rubbing my face and lips

across the curve of your thigh

inhaling and tasting the skin of you

as you arch your back and reach for me

i will be only partly there—thinking

what is this like?

drifting as i always do

as i always will

into me and the possibility of words

you will believe your legs wrapped around me

like a wedding band have pulled me home

you will offer your skinny throat only for me

to bury my fangs—to drink deep and true

and there will be times i press my mouth to your neck

after whispering in your ear as we lie entwined and hushed

“tell me you want me” to feel your words vibrate on my lips

i am one to taste and swallow your desire whole

but this writer’s love is permanently ephemeral

the love of a hermit anxious to be alone

the love of a vampire bound to the night

a wordsmith builds his fortress with words

and wields metaphors like a crucifix and Apotropaic garlic

and then i see you

caught outside

on a brisk, windy spring day

wearing inadequate sandals

and my mind spins

a quilt of words

to warm you in my hands

my face pressed to cool skin

artifice is a testament, you see,

and i believe in always you