I WANT TO BE HOME FOR THE WORST PARTS OF YOU

.

this is a horrible picture of this piece.  this isn't even how i think this piece should be displayed.  it's simply that i want to live with it for awhile.  i want this net of poetry falling all around me, encircling my bed, greeting me in the half-light of early morning when the brightness of the day first spills in through my window:  I WANT TO BE HOME FOR THE WORST PARTS OF YOU -  my masochism sunning itself in the twists of black yarn, stretching its limps in the slow patience of each stitch, as pleased and self-satisfied as a cat.

these games of exposure are sticky.  how much of this ends up being Persona?  how much of myself am i actually exposing?  how much do i want to expose?

the level of redaction i employ when culling phrases from my diary is steep.  i look for poetic turns of phrase, a nod toward a particular shadow of self.  i tell the truth but not the whole truth.  these sentiments are divorced from their original context.  entire paragraphs and pages that flesh out the original meaning and situate the phrase in a more complete environment and atmosphere have been obliterated.  one sentence remains.  a fragment.  and that fragment is let to sparkle in the rays of sun that come filtering through the broken blinds above my bed. 


a tease.

a hint.

a half-truth?


lying by omission?


my banners wave, endlessly endlessly, in the soft light of fantasy and desire.  in just such a light, it is easy to fashion whatever truth one wants, whatever truth one needs.  i can be whatever you need me to be.  my desire, a chime that beckons yours.  




a spider's web.


.