In time we will escape the citadel.

In time comes the white outline set of an

overlay from the bottom up,

in time drapery over the doorway

firing, squeezing the possibility

of love into pulp,

the view to certain boons becoming clear;

the bluff will pass.

The young prince chooses violence,

surveys his kingdom

all at once

and chooses to instigate

wine and former surrogacy.

The young prince finds that home

communicates the site of the wound,

(in comedic, ever-spiralling

continuity.)

There is the pageboy again

greeting you as you emerge.

There is the blowout as you challenge

familial ends.

The young prince resists the prophecies both of Freud and

Persephone, Antigone, rejecting frauds – death to any other

mother.

I too choose to run, sometimes with ease, jealousy, or availability,

sometimes not; away,

veering from discomfort, of “knowing”, that once separate energy is unspooling,

it collects its own conscience,

though still not ergonomic. To turn and face the gates of Tartarus, again,

endlessly, maybe? or Louise Bourgeois saying “I have been

to hell and back, and let me tell you,

it was wonderful” and Caroline Polachek,

“this is gonna be torture

before it’s sublime,”

or the culmination of a year, the growth

that comes from tears, and a movement

taking place in the mid-section,

the spilling of blood as

the Gorgon decides its uses,

or was this planned?

How tragic, to just

be a spinning top.

A father pins you down by force,

the other pins you down with grace.

or Oprah saying “the vultures are waiting to

pick your bones,” or never catching a glimpse

of something inside.