Encyclopedia

When I need to know what brown is, I ask the Evangelist, and he turns the pages of authorized orthodoxy, to read to me the conditions of my slavery.

When I need to know what violet is, I ask the Scientist and he gives me homework from the pages of allowed dogma, and I do my paper on the necessity of my bondage, with at least 5 sources, heavily cited endnotes.

When I want to know what red is, I ask the Politician and he quotes the books of the law, laid down before the foundations of the world, declaring upon me my whore birthright. Then he gives me what I deserve, and after I wipe my mouth and curl up in a ball and weep, he says he feels my pain and kisses my baby.

I want to go to Beulah Land.

I want to go to the Forest of Blank Pages.

I can write my own story there. I can name my own colors there, thick and wide, full of folio upon folio of the truth that fell upon my senses. Fell upon my senses when we were alone, unbridled, and pure.

In the Key of Seasons

As it turns the light bends across the sky and the frayed end sways colors through the ether.

 

Like a glass chain of time, counting the fractal moments that you and I have woven together into white.

 

As it turns the light bends to the summer of days when we plunged, naked and unashamed, into the waters of our love.

 

As it slowly spins on frosty thread, the winter comes and we rest. We give pause and ponder the flames where desire dances.

 

Waiting.

 

It turns and green spills out across the land of love, renewed. The flames kept it warm.

 

It will turn again soon, maybe too soon.  Too soon.  Gold and red and orange.  The final gasp before we rest once more.

 

Or die.

 

Someday.

 

Someday no colors will sway on that frayed end, passing through the ether.