the lost man chronicles
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i am he (are you she?)

i am he

who conquers thee not by brute force, but by the soft ply of a word; he who pilfers your thoughts with each allusion and intrusion upon the mundane, to vainly charge you aloof, away and afar from the injustice of succumbing to social truths. (sigh)—i do possess this rare power of epistolary sorcery, and alas there are few who have the requisite agility, insight and wit to intuit it’s real meaning, to be beguiled and defiled and saved by every wayward and unconventional minim of expression inherent in the elucidation of the maven.

and i am he who rolls with thee, who smiles and looks up at you with genuine glee, thinking “i am he! i am he! i am he!" who loves this wonderful word-waif, this rakish fille, this divine soubrette who takes from my till of creation and refills it with inspiration with the magical bat of an eye, a hoodwink have you, that wiles with chicanery so subtle that i am certain she is a witch.

and i—bewitched, by bantam gestures and petite pliés and practically any small movement which has my hopes fluttering foolishly, i , i will invite her to serve as both muse and maestro, both dam to the deluge and inspirator to the subterfuge which has us escaping the mundane, the damned fate that engenders mediocrity and the destiny which leads most into quotidian apathy and ennui.

i am he.

and i stand breathless as i reread and linger upon every word of yours, every benevolent curl of a cue, every unfurling and whirling, vertiginous passage which immediately pangs and resounds and screams this yearning. i am already aching for you.

and i dare carry you and hoist all your venturesome, winsome, wanton aspirations. will you willfully lean to fill my palm’s supplication for endearing harmony, caressing and slow petting of the mind, as if we were inclined to revisit adolescence with drawn out sighs and playful indications of always wanting more? i implore you to confirm my dream, this mad notion that—i am he.

alas, i previse my kisses may close more than your eyes, for they may fell your own wordy intentions as well. as i, equally won over, mercilessly smitten by your cursive and prolix inclinations, will want nothing less than to curse those blessed, pouting lips of yours with the iniquitous bane of my own. will you forgive me there and then and continue to try here and again, to evoke cimmerian utterances of desire forevermore?

i will. and i am and i want to be the gritty and keen knight who leads you asunder from the emptiness of the ether, the vacuum that sucks all the pleasure away from the prospects of libidinous palpability. and yes, aloft and landing upon velvety willows of the carnal and cerebral nebulae, secluded, sequestered in a world of our own, we will hover upon the wings of our words and grandiloquent caprice of serendipity.

and yes, my love and genius will spill forth thereafter in the warm wake of bliss, upon sheets, into tomes, and onto epics of prose and unworldly verse, all the words of heaven on earth, utopia manifest, if only because you have led me astray into the plush folds of a hereunto elusive destiny...

are you she?

are you she?

are you she?

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