In Fugitive Moments

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This piece was written inside a 'Fugitive Moment' of Clarity & Wellness. Snatch JOY! lmr

1.
 
In fugitive moments, we tend to become ourselves.  We are pure and innocent as small, untainted children.  Our very essence is rendered clear and transparent as an orb of glass that hovers in a halo above our heads.
 
In fugitive moments we are our most authentic. We are uncomplicated, unworldly, our slate's clean and vacant as a new born baby's karma.  
 
In fugitive moments, I am more or less this unique and prosaic being. I am earthbound and I am free. I am no longer "Lin" or "Ross" or "homey"; no longer "Boss"  or  "boyee" , no longer "sir" or "bruh," and 
I am none of the names nor the slick and vicious things that are said in whispers behind my back. 
 
You see, in fugitive moments, when no one else is looking, watching, checking or judging us, it is only then, that we are truly free. 
 
 
In fugitive moments, when my sham is M.I.A, I can shake off my act like an ill-fitting sweater that does not drape or flatter the broadness of my shoulders.
 
In fugitive moments,it is finally... okay... to breathe... and chill... and just be...
 
In fugitive moments, your opinion of me is no longer my business.   
 
In fugitive moments your idea of me is no longer in play, nor is it a factor.
 
In fugitive moments there is no ill thought nor an albatross weighing along the nape of my neck.
 
In fugitive moments, I can remove the metal monstrosity of this mask I am forced to wear each day of my life.
 
And inside of these fugitive moments, do you think you might just love me... anyway... even when I become my self, natural and naked and flawed and selfish? 
 
In fugitive moments there are no more lures to attract to you or to entrap me.
 
In fugitive moments, I come with no props, no cash, no drag, no car, no stash, no shows, no prospects, no credit, no debit card...
 
In fugitive moments, would it be too hard to love the flawed, warts-and-all me, the completely unadorned me;  the black me, the bold me, the scared shitless me, the unshared me, the whole erratic, enigmatic
mystery-behind-the-curtain...
 
me?
 
 
2.
 
Real Talk: I am skin and bone and dreams and thorns.
 
I am composed mostly of mama's disappointments, my father's DNA, my grandmother's southern manners, and my family's bullshit parts.
 
I am not well.  None of us is well.  We have spells.  We have spells of sickness and spells of wellness. Wellness comes in spells.  Much like happiness.
 
I am an emotional mutt, a successful failure, a broken spirit, a forgotten pin-up,  an often blocked poet, but... would you,  could you, lower your bourgeois expectations, and just love me, anyway?
 
In fugitive moments, when I am nothing more than a stray shadow on a wall, an erect silhouette that pitches and heaves and breathes beside you, when the doors of our eyes are closed tight in a room, dark and tremulous as midnight...and I am sinking slowly, slowly sinking, sinking sooooo slloooooowly into the soft wet contours of a poem ..? 
 
And afterward... after  the music ends, after the dance is done,  after the verses come like waves to swell and cascade into moans and pants... pants and moans ... 
 
would it be too hard to call me "baby" when I can't hear you?  Would it be too difficult to love, to truly love the weak and weeping me, or this sleeping me. lying behind you, snoring inside the sum of my vulnerabilities?
 
 
 
You know, in those fugitive moments, would it be too hard, or even possible to love this cat, this dude, this man... this dreaming me, this fanciful me, this scared me, I mean... the whole me?
 
 
Hold me.
 
 
 
 
 
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