Right. Absolutely.

Not all rage is dirge for greatness rages always. And not all dirt is the fault of the rider who tried to break the horse to make her into a breeder and then fell off, flying, enraged, greatly. What style he landed in! I don't trust a man who doesn't come in black and white. And we're all too young to know what black is. I don't trust any of us and become the horse bucking the tamer off my back and faster and faster I ran into everyone at that movie about the slave who thought he was the master. All these American tears, so well-behaved like imaginary fences and we can be that tidy again if only we discover where oppression suggests love and stop there for a day or forever acting like we remember the difference, recall, can be what it is.

He bleeds the way the moon bleeds too, in soft cycles from new to completely. He believes me when I say yes and make the leap into something else seem like a regular glance or gear or arguably the only thing left to be about. I keep shouting his fantasies at the top of my silence and they return to me as lived experience. That must be the power of denial and the power of love vying for another strand of dna, trying to clean our minds the easy way. Have you ever seen a man chasing a horse with a branding irony, walk away and disappear into the clear desolation of his own will, having finally outsmarted the ghetto of ideas and become himself or a better lie. I've been training my fantasies and they finally believe me when I say yes, and leap into something else, right, absolutely.