j'y arrive

i awake from under ether and am greeted not by beauty, nor the-light-between-the-chinks, but by love that reeks of fear and gasoline: by the liquid plural blackness of not-knowing.

what a morbid and a tiresome thing is love!

my eyes snap shut and still i do not see the thing mapped out like military rows of trees: i see: the grey-faced anesthetic soldiers of What-If, What-If, What-If marching arm in arm with vapid, white-eyed love.