the terror that terror brings
is infinite and without regard;

the terror that terror brings
has a divine scope.

terrors give me trembling hands,
shaky thumbs approaching
dirty off-white keys
as i am within the largest
most unsettling hug;
terror's arms are huge.
terror's hands are calloused
catcher's mitts, broken in with hate


i never really thought of death
as something real,
as something permanent,
as something that happens to real people,
and, now, its glaringly obvious
that death is the only reality,
that life is the fiction we're creating
when the sun is up and when the sun is down,
that it is in everyday life where the battle for power
takes place, and it's your narrative
against my narrative:
who will persuade or coerce us
"This is Reality."
... but it will really, always, never be 'this' or 'that'
but 'this and that and this, this, and this and that, too',
and then thisthisthisthatthisthatthatthatthisthisand that, too.

i am afraid
i can't think of you, mom.
for to think of you
is to later dream of you
of how id like my life to be,
of how id like your life to be,
and thats all i want for you,
to speak of you, again, in the present tense.