Deleuze in the bathroom asked me:
"Why does desire desire its own repression, how can it desire its own repression?"
He was talking about fascism, but I was thinking about you, and how we all become fascists when we forget the way to love- "a micropolitics of insecurity"- and we start up a little gestapo running around our hearts with billy clubs.
Happiness is the sure path
to slipping into emofascism,
all the games people play
to exert control over each other
to reaffirm certainty. "A society
is defined by its lines of flight, there is always something
that flows or flees, that escapes
organization."
We love what stays in the border and if it tries to flee, we send it off to the Gulag.
We might not ever know. Love, it's a strange country filled with fear and prisons, rules, constantly changing to serve the purpose of our hearts and minds, our love and our ego.
The organizing principle is loyalty to the state.
But there will be a revolution, this time.
Every poem is a molotov. I want to be an anarchist. I want to rush inside you, poetry exploding in your chest, and any pieces that stray over the border, these stupid borders, let it be free, this time.
In the quest for so much certainty, fascism comes to replace trust when faith has been obliterated. I need to learn how to let you move in all directions at once, even if it's a form of surrender.
Maybe that is anarchy after all: an eternal surrender to trust.
-e.
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