B r e a t h i n g . R e d . B u l l

Slow the Mind
For little remains
To think
Before the Body
Is put to Rest

This is what I tell myself

Yet if all were left were seconds
Thoughts would return willfully
To him, and
The brief moments spent together
That gave sunshine to a lifetime of

This is what I tell myself

“You’ve become a writer!”
They exclaim
“Does life not grant me this title at birth?”
I thought
“Did the printed word find itself abandoned by physical action?”
I wondered


Aren’t both a legacy of published and unpublished works, that in rest will find subjection to scrutiny and misunderstanding in a library of congress whose doors are closed to selective members of the public?

This is what I ask myself each day, before pecking away at the keyboard, picking up the pen, and running around from place to place. They will call us whatever they will; idealists, betrayers, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, lovers, loyalists, sinners, saints, less or more.

They will redact us to fit between the limitations of someone else’s lines, and it may be years, lifetimes, or never; but maybe they’ll come to know we existed to murder the pretentiousness of authority by exposing all it attempted to take, through the erasure of prisons drawn in white lines around bodies and minds it hoped to maim beneath vehicles of pleasuring entitlement.

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