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The fall of a trip.

A pair of mended pantyhose, rationed from back during war time, hang on a wire, until dry, next to a patio railing lined with salted peanuts made as an offering to the nervous yet inquisitive Stellar’s Jays.

How I appear; how I am; how I perceive.

I first steeped in the blues near the delta shores of Muscle Shoals, as a child.

Families singing songs since forgotten by most places where time flows through you more quickly.

/ the grandfather clock was too tall for the shelf, but as it weighed,

not a penny,

not a penny, weighed more/

A pendulous arm with a weighted ball

pivots about the point of suspension.

Ticking out time in mono sound.

Watch it and I will show you how that strange land taught me to turn five seconds into three æons.

And, I write these words, first, by longhand to show how inane I can be; and,

to see those recognizing

kindness is kin of open-mindedness.

Sometimes I get a little...:howls the singer.

/And, when nobody’s there to write it, I’m gonna show you everything…/

/and, I can feel it in the silence…/

/why dont you come take a trip with me./

An emptied vessel is not necessarily vacuous; but, to

presume it is craven to be filled, is teleological fallacy.

Without trying,

{still}

a cistern is what it is:

Bits of sand transmuted into glass blown

to be exploded and then recapitulated.

Sea glass is simply sandy trash recycled.

I found the open secret viz a viz a well-marked rabbithole

with a spray painted perimeter to warn that

you fall at your own sweet risk.

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Efficient Efficacy

The lunch rush of the little restaurant passes by two p.m.

I feel a hand lightly touch my shoulder.

How does being driven to distraction feel?: he asks.

Like being hyper-focused yet still clicking the submit button and immediately realizing your digital letter included a typo.: I reply.

Most people include typos in their writing, these days.: he replies.

Not me.: I say.

So your precious words betrayed you?: he asks.

No, they were instructive as regards the affect of your distraction.: I say.

So, I am effective?: he teases.

At the least, the effect you produce in me is no affectation on my behalf: I concede.

And, I wonder: will it still swim in my stomach when I return to handle the dinner rush tonight?

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A sound not a bay.

I am the subtle magnetic force trying to kindly shift

your aged space and the immediacy of your moments.

Or, is that you?

Pulls of the polarized enliven me.

Maybe I am your current, optimal conditions,

an ideal, unidyll ether enabling materialization.

I see from the lonely vacuum without feeling alone.

Electric light and natural radiance.

A backlit screen,

The sun striking the pages of written text in a newly opened book.

Lidar and black holes howling in polite algorithmic rhythm.

The Oxford comma not being used within

sentences always running-on.

A’stood between two pillars of trees

with bark gnarled from time,

coarse like hands that can carry wood and graphite,

my writing flows

forward and backward.

And, simply saying, “hush” can be a come and turn-on to the fretted strings.

I see success is your proof; and, it

arouses need to draw your reaction.

Your attention.

So when you ask: Do you see?

I respond: I know.

Because I want to hear

You ask me: you know what, exactly?

i know my eyes want to watch your eyes: I reply with sheepishly calculated vulnerability.

I can see you enter a hypothetical room and

stand still.

Hell knows what I’d be doing, but

I know

I would stop doing it at the sight of your site.

To read you, without words,

your reaction. The response received from your eyes, without smiles.

Feeling as a fool tossing a coin with the Fates.

I ran with you in dreams last night: I say.

And, I understood the difference between a cagey connoisseur and a common collector: I think.

A coattailer or a partner in crime.

You tell me: your hair is a kudzu trail twisting down a terrace in tresses of winding locks.

These things are integral, like a well-timed laugh,

yet, they reduce to simple vibrations and shudders.

I live by a body of water

that is a sound oft confused for a bay.

But, my bays sound

like a whispered suggestion:

Come and bathe with me, Archimedes.

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Monolith-Fly Golden Eagle

No rights: homage to a song whose lyrics are still hard for me to make out after jamming this track for many years.

There is a certain mood that was made for this song.

It is here, today, on this slippery Sunday morning.

It reminds me of two words:

Hi-wa-itck: a Mohave tradition concerning lovesickness that is associated with insomnia, anxiety, light depression, and loss of appetite.

Front of center: (archery) the weight of an arrow tip that determines the penetration of the intended target.

/Lightly as we go.

I got ya hand inside my…

And where it ends nobody knows/

/So tell me what I’m supposed

To do

When all my thoughts get wrapped up in you/

/Was like an engine sucking steam

Just letting it slide/

/Just like your smile is so alive.

A bow and arrow shot you…/

/…coming unglued/

\Ahhhhhh let it go!/

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Verba Eclipsata

The ascent of a scent,

warm and humid like southern nights.

A recollection of something never had yet still known,

like the smell of a world existing prior to the industrial revolution.

Encoded in all minds, like a forgotten dream suddenly recalled.

“It’s curious how ‘illicit’ is used more than ‘licit.’ ”

“That’s not what I’ve come to discuss.”

“Are you sure about that?”

The livery stable holds a horse rode hard and put up wet.

From the projection of the rider’s own limbic system,

thereby was a scythe observed

being cleaned

off in a river of cortisol,

and, then, resheathed into the odd, wrappings

made of hide.

The harmony of the discord between a

sympathetic

And

parasympathetic

nervous system that is only given rest through

relentless fight or flight.

The capture and surrender of two individual, respective attentions.

Things contained and separated by encasings of skin.

Verba Eclipsata Intende A Dinspir.

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Going Native

Taut red skin

Mercury droplets shifting, smearing.

The scent of the vanilla extract.

A compromise made in offering to being uncompromising,

to be compromised.

Reclamation of a piece of land left to lie fallow

after slash and burn farming.

Going native is just realizing your root.

A gift economy.

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Pearl eats Oyster

The wex of supplication

The hex of self-sacrifice.

An aloe juice applied.

A smoked cigarette.

for supplication

of abasement.

Simplicity may dissolve into

a unity of psychic diversity.

Four bases produce

endless genotypes producing

infinite phenotypes.

The nature of nurture or lack thereof.

The art of service:

The difference between

I’m happy to help.

&

I’m glad to help.

Private humility

Laughing in the darkness of that which gifts you discomfort.

Where strangers are seldom seen.

I make circles. Keep up with my eyes.

Let it all be a tactical, tactile trick.

Kind brats of men move my pen.

See and know. Bathe with and clean.

Tepid water tested by toes while the ewer of a

faucet head drips.

Wake from a lucid dream into sleep paralysis at a touch of skin.

Churlish obstinacy and insubordination.

An affixed clothe-spin stinging like an inability to articulate.

A sheet hanging until until no longer wet.

The silence of the narcissist to the empath.

The empathic, giggling punishment of a narcissist.

A fretted string strung too tightly,

coiled to snap like a cobra.

A mouse that

turns out

to be a mongoose.

The extension of legs when moving from flat footed

to en pointe.

A swan taking flight.

A hunter knowing a swan strays not too far from its pond.

The thrill and repulsion of an irregular pearl who consumes

and swallows the oyster muscle.

.

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Sweeping up

Sweep me off my feet.:he said.

This was different.

The difference between breathless and breathlessness.

I could set fruit on you.

I’ve been dreaming of restaurant work. Not stress dreaming.

The other night I was seating songs on the dining room floor.

Color swirls and wave patterns that

you could not

visually perceive yet

you still see

And, they made hummin’ noises.

Dreamy little lilts that were not parts of the songs they represented.

I just got off a great yawn of a breath.

Imagine the inconceivable: you say.

Well,: I say: gladly, assuming you recognize

you have requested i prove gödel’s sentence g

[trans. The very constructs of the query are technically

impossible to prove by the rules

enlivening the question as reasonable to me.]

I look up and

my neck cranes over my left shoulder,

to shudder and squint into the sun.

The moon will be in its place soon enough.

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Unidyll Cads

Some of us are born out of synch with time

, revealing shady shadows

hazy

making weird and wet.

Even now the power lines can be seen as

demarcators between sky and Sound

, the lie and the allusion of a false horizon.

As, it is not a two dimensional axial tangle where water meets sky

It enjoins the earthen solid with the heavens and the sea.

Like how I could not see the mountains to my left

, for a solid month. And

, upon, seeing them

, to only mis-take them to be transient clouds of vagrancy.

The crows take their nuts

, chucked down to the Pavement below.

The chickadees take and taste everything fearlessly.

The Stellars’ Jays need lots of attention

, carrying boomboxes slung over their left wing

, blaring The Boys are Back in Town.

The junkos take nothing but simply get caught in condo hallways above parking decks.

The hummingbirds

, they come with simple ferocity for the taste of sugar water.

And a staccato strikes repeatedly. In time

, I take action.

My left hand flips an ancient

, anchor Roman coin.

(No calling heads or tails

, as there is simply Janus).

Flick

, twirling woosh

, palm-slap catch.

My right hand plays with a switchblade knife.

Opened.

Balanced upon the the knuckles

, then

Pwap

Balanced upon the underside of the knuckles

, my palm open skyward.

Spinning the web of a mesmorist to lay your tired greyhound mind to rest.

Notice howl the flare of nostril changes the shape of your lungs’ breath.

/and, nobody cares, especially me. But, I can’t help myself/

As I fall back awake from sleep.

/the intolerable lucidity of insomnia/ wrote Jorges Borges (The Circular Ruins).

The Art of Dreaming authored Carlos Castaneda after years of staying up all night.

The Voice of Knowledge wrote the nagual.

Shadowboxers fighting in the sunshine are oft under

Appreciated.

Featured

Parçigal bemoans

Has Comte de Saint-Germain simply imitated Guillaume Postel, who desperately wanted people

desperately wanted people

to believe he was older than he was.

Why had the Maistre gone to Wilhelmsbad to sow dissension


You will change clothes and do as I say. Relent and give in to me.

Through sheer passion and devoted imagination,

I hope to draw you back to me of your volition.
Relent and give in to me.

That low throat voice, that angry sounding breath of desperate need and wanting posturing as powerful loudness.

and wanting posturing as powerful loudness.

So good, sweet thing. How i howl.
desperate need and wanting posturing as powerful loudness.

By my word I will you show your will that I am your mistress and also your mastered.

also your mastered.
I am your mistress and also your mastered.

God|dess to your God|head. I crown you and declare you divine. I show you what I see of your divine effulgence.

I show you what I see of your divine effulgence.

Your head bursts with creation.

My uterus becomes a mystical fire of muse, as well as bemused.
I show you what I see of your divine effulgence.

The Alchemy Feminine: Transmutation of the uterus to womb viz a viz the push of seed in the push for life.

viz a viz the push of seed in the push for life.
viz a viz the push of seed in the push for life.

An empty chalice found, earned, deserving of, and filled through ecstasy of passion coupling with

ecstasy of passion coupling with

romance, attenuates our attunement to become love’s incubator

of the burning flame that smelts away and disposes of impurities.

But without a reason to refine, love can flee and leave the incubator to entomb itself.

entomb itself.
leave the incubator to entomb itself.

A simple supplication to my nape, back, breasts will rekindle me; is taken in as prayer.

is taken in as prayer.

But my Mastery of Ecstasy flows from your oral obeisance,

dearheart. Your enjoyment and desire to

bury your face and lap and eat.

Watch me. Until my eyes narrow,

my smile becomes a pout of lips, my voice goes

deeper and the fry deepens.
will rekindle me; is taken in as prayer.

Let’s un-domesticate before their eyes. You are branded, but I am not.

You are branded, but I am not.

No mark torched my skin and

I usher you to the Maverick underground which

magically exists above ground.

Giggle. I do this for you only, because that is how this gal works:

on a one gent basis (remember punk, it doesn’t have to be you).
You are branded, but I am not.

You ask, “Won’t you ask me my second name? The name you want to call me?”

The name you want to call me?”
The name you want to call me?”

I laugh, “Dummy, that was me that asked you that question in a dream a month ago.”

you that question in a dream a month ago.”
that question in a dream a month ago.”

Your gaze drops as your head lowers.

Bit of a grin gives you away.

Lovely tough guy eh?

Featured

Parçigal Waxes for Æ

A man I pass every morning told me, yesterday: you must be a native, dressed like that.

I wore a pallet of grey, black, and brown.

I assumed it was these colors that made him say such a thing.

Then, I saw myself.

A native alien in this strange land,

but four hundred years before now.

An imposter amongst the indigenous.

A civilized lady gone native.

A warrior savage with hunters who fall with her.

And, now, I see that

the Sound is water and sky together.

A point of infinity from whence we cannot distinguish air from liquid.

And, now, dearheart, night became itself.

The moon waxes nearly full,

jumping from one side of the street to the other,

as I snake around two city blocks. And,

even clearer now does the tower

with twenty seven windows crumble before mine eyes.

I built those eleven steps to its front door two decades ago.

Where many may think: what has become of my work?

I think: that old thing is still standing?! Didn’t Æ cry “to dispose of this” as the Philistines yelled at Daniel in a Lion’s den.

But, see,

I know: a lioness does well in a lion’s den.

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Confluence of a hostess.

After days of varying sobriquets

[Dimples, Goldilocks, Curly Sue, At the Bat]

Amber Eyes has become my daily moniker to Shelia and Don.

She grabs me, everyday, this intense mid-eighty year old lady.

Everyday, she grasps my face between her palms,

holding my cheeks to keep my head still.

[Serious(ly).]

She pushes her face inches from mine

and stares into my eyes.

As if to make sure that I am who I appear to be.

Are the eyes, in fact, amber?: I swear I cam intuit her asking herself,

before proceeding.

I take a deep breath, knowing what will follow: secrets.

Heavy ones. Ex-drama teachers seem to always have them.

It is 9 a.m. and I still force myself to meet her eyes and listen.

A man arrives.

Single diners can be sensitive.

Especially when a restaurant hostess says: just one today.

So, I do not say this.

Hi. Good to see you. How can I help?: I say.

He takes my hand as he removes his sunglasses.

He speaks with an accent I cannot identify.

I hear him say: I’d like a date.

Pardon?: I ask. Hand still in his.

I’d like to eat: he says motioning to his mouth.

I smile.

I can help with that. Right this way: I say, leading him to the bar,

hand still held by his.

There is one elder lady at the bar.

He sits five seats away from her.

She collects her things and leaves.

I think nothing of it.

“I love you,” server J. says.

I know: I tease: but what makes you tell me?

You made the racist leave: she says.

Huh?: I am confused.

That was the woman from yesterday. The one who I told you the story about. She took off when she saw him: she says with a big smile.

It was Mother’s day a year ago when this woman revealed her ignorance. Well before I started working here. The story was worse than any I had witnessed in Alabam’.

Point her out next time, so I can tell her we don’t serve her kind here. Many of these old white folks, all look the same to me: I say, not joking.

I get cut when the rush dies.

I stop by the hardware store to buy a pint. Jane is working. She is my favorite.

You must be done working. It’s good to get off your feet: she smiles.

Aww, you remember me. That means a lot.: I say and mean.

We meet so many people.: she says.

I smile.

Yup. Ya know I worked from a chair, in front of a computer, for many years. Turns out I’m better, happier, on my feet. Plus, I am a bit reclusive. It’s good for me to talk to all these people: I say.

We are all actors. You and I are good ones because we are authentic.: she says.

I freeze at her gravity. I look into her eyes. In silence.

You know me. I appreciate you. I also appreciate your help today.: I say.

She grins.

I exit and feel energy coursing.

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Dream of a Watery Cavern

It was a sub terrain keystone cavern of cathedral proportions, carved out from the processes of semi-precious, conductive mineral excavations.

I dreamt I lived underwater, there,

in a little house on the floor of

the Sound,

it was filled with water.

It rained heavy droplets of oxygen,

pattering on the tin roof.

I drop my pen, it slowly floats downwards.

You catch it with your mouth, before it reaches the ground.

Your eyes look up at mine with pride.

I see you shiver.

I silently say: Come and let’s lie down together; you on your back.

I wrap my legs around you, and

slide my thighs and calves against yours,

rubbing limbs like how crickets sing,

until you are warm.

Satisfied sighs bubble from your lips.

You keep shivering well after becoming warm.

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Permittivity

The story always flows inside. Now, outside, as well. Like JM says: I see something of myself in everyone; just at this moment of the world.

From the perspective of the Pendulum’s pivot point

From which we are all hanged.

So, I pace out a one-room prowl.

Cursed and blessed our we,

tethered by our high potential of permittivity?

They shalt not treat us unkindly,

but, we may ache further(,)

still.

These indirect aspersions haunt my southern plane,

remaining innominate.

I see you,

nearly combustible from that raw fossil fuel that burns out of your eyes as hot tears.

An enflamed emanation of emotion.

A diesel engine backfiring.

A vice-president shooting his friend in the face.

A murder that occurs on account of how hot it is.

A happy death.

A shadow.

A deal with the devil that you pray to god s/he must hono(u)r.

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Push it along.

.:.

~Sometimes I wonder: what is there to write that cannot already be read?

⊙The difference between flowing from and flowing into?

~No. Those states occur, necessarily, in tandem. Like a rope, strung between two cans,

conducts the sounds that the speaker/s curate.

⊙A feedback loop within an open system.

~Why repeat yourself when you can simply read those notes your previous self left to your current self?

⊙On account of how forgetful you knew and know yourself to be?

~Especially when

you have been as long as Æ has been.

⊙Your stasis is my equilibrium.

~I am bespoke you are not beholden.

You are dear to me because you endeared yourself to me by virtue of you being precisely who you are, have been, and will be.

⊙ I think you are too short to push it.

~ You think too much. Plus, I am taller than many things.

⊙I think you talk too much.

~ Then shut me up. You know howl.

.:.

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Ariadne Howls to Æ

How is it that, I, Ariadne, she whom gave you the string to trace your way out of this labyrinth, now finds herself strung along by it?

When did the slipped, sleeping pill take æffect?

Am I woke or lucid dreaming

Or sleep walking?

I came

from whence rhythm first flowed and then flew.

I return twice slain.

Yet, still

I return,

by choice,

hunting on my tip toes.

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Next Thing You Know…

No music rights: just homage to a soundtrackscape.

I am sick like dog: I say in my bestest, thickest Eastern European accent to the chef.

I am too ignorant to have a specific dialect, but the rasp in my voice is too deep to not enjoy, even if it hurts.

Ill since three a.m. The tasty haze of the deliciously grey day suits my fever.

Seven

a.m. texts go out.

1. The manager working.

I say: Ain’t well. Looking for a cover. If you don’t hear from me again, it means you guys are stuck with me doing my best.

I include exactly zero emoti-cons.

2. The potential covers.

I say: I’m sick. Host this morning?

No cover expected. Restaurant folk, generally do not rise before the early afternoon, at best, unless they are working. Were situations reversed, I would not come through either.

I sit on the patio and watch the day arrive between seven and eight.

Still and grey.

/Buckle up and endure, now, sweet thing./

I take puffs off my electronic nicotine machine, knowing full well it will help nothing.

My inhaler: I love calling it.

/Cancer for the cure/?

Ya know I can’t cite the source, but I recall a study saying folks are statistically more likely to prefer being shocked with a low charge, over sitting in a room, alone, in silence for fifteen minutes.

So I put on an album called electro shock blues.

I don’t mind stillness. I can shock myself with my own thoughts.

So who is the glutton for pain? The ones who like a bit of shock-pain because being alone is too painful or the ones who get off on stillness?

/well, hee hee hee hee/

/Next thing you know/ You’re eat’n hospital food/

I arrive to work. I am released and sent home after an hour. I think they wanted see if I would show up and try.

It’s good to have reasons to persevere and

over-come:

I say and i mean.

Because I get off on my intent to not let feeling bad make others feel bad or me feel worse.

Seems quite silly to say, as I put it into words now.

I am mostly light and love, but with a little bit of why-don’t-you-go-fuck-yourself for counterbalance.

Back home.

Bare beneath a grey robe.

Leg warmers over calves and most of my feet.

Earl Gray tea with a bit of cream and vanilla extract.

An American Werewolf in London Faux-Fog: I silently entitle the bootleg concoction, in homage of the traditional London Fog tincture.

Back on the patio.

The wind chops and dices the waters of

the Sound

into tiny, white-capped waves.

Little peaks of liquid mountains.

/What/

/What/

/I can hear you/

/I was…/

/Sing the one about the cat that’s always get’n wet/

Comes down the wires, from my tablet, into my Blue headphones.

I giggle.

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Æ fusses at Parçigal

~The number of takes we had to make because this cunt kept pulling the cord out of the headphones? Absurd.

⊙Ab-so-lutely. This cunt asks: can everyone hit metaphysical psychedelia with one pint and a dozen orgasms? Green too. And, does it make sense to say that my third eye forgets to see the good in me? So, it only perceives the manifestations of negative me?

~What have you done for another today? Also, people get snippy about that term

⊙Everything and nothing. It’s word play. I’m a cuntry station, I’m a little bit corny. You know it. But, I could tell you my mythos of what martial arts means.

~Please do.

⊙So, it is fighting as Tao as work as play as flow

As life

Specifically, it refers to energetic exchanges between powerful empaths. Often performed remotely or by proxy. That’s right, by proxy. By, like, virtue of having an army or having realized your doppleganger exists or by energetic control over another. And, even the hypothetical dominator could be unaware of what they are doing. Like watching a boxing match and not understanding that you’re watching a video game where you are player one, controlling the boxer you watch. Unawares.

~Jesus fucking christ…

⊙Everytime with this one?: this cunt giggles.

~Yeah, Cheeses Crust, as you say. You emote too much.

⊙[Howling in laughter] You think, sweet dickhead? Sorry. I have to laugh at myself the same way I have to live with myself. Don’t spook. And, don’t feel bad for me. You’re here by choice.

~Well, you are incorrigible, but not insufferable. Kind of exasperatingly delicious.

⊙Only cuz you are old enough to feel justified in your grumpiness.

~Your ball comes across my fence, I keep it.

⊙Oh puh’lease, “it was [your] stage” when you were a young man, too. Fuck ewe. Pleas, I am so wet.

~Cheesy cracker super snacker. Don’t you think of anything but sex?

⊙Paul F. Thompkins as Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber on Comedy Bang Band & Todd Rundgren’s track, the one before (You Don’t Have to) Camp Around off of A Wizard, a True Star. And, no. I don’t. Not these days.

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Collected Strands

Restless a.m.

I

Ayes running through my mind’s eyes like little cottontails scrambling into the brambles.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Robins bobbling around for worms.

The only animals appearing sleepy are tethered. A dog walking a human.

A clot of hair collects about a nail head that is pounded into the railing.

I suppose it is mine.

Strands tugged a’loose like feathers, after the daily ritual of:

arrive home, sit outside, and, let the waves down.

Like little feathers lost only to be reassembled into

a new configuration.

A merkin for the metal.

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Macha – Between Stranded Sonars

No rights: homage.

From the album See It Another Way.

Having had the autumnal blues yesterday, I message a distant friend who offered me solace. I say: I can tolerate one more beer before my tolerance renders me incapable of doing a good job at the restaurant at 8 a.m. tomorrow. A night out has done my heart good.

Asat alone at a bar top. To my left is my sister, currently outside cancelling her plans with her man. To my right is my father, currently at the bar ordering a pitcher.

I finish my beer as the band launches into their opening number.

Tommy Tutone.

Jenny.

I know that gal’s number already: I think: had you opened with Lady Stardust? Well, I mighta hung around for he/r.

I get home. To my pack of cigs. I wanna smoke a square and pluck one.

My mind moves quickly.

I play the game I love:

What is the perfect song right now?

Macha. First track from the self-titled album?

No. That was the perfect song two years.

Do better. Dig deeper.

Last track. Same band. Album afore mentioned.

I walk and smoke tobacco leaf. To make sure.

My brow furrows. Hard. Like the force of thought incepting me right now.

I am sure. Perfect song for right now, indeed.

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The Undercutters: A Banana Nut Muffin Introduction.

“You look ridulous.”

“What? I’m in all black. Scarf for my face. A colorful leotard beneath.”

“Scoff. The Undercutters use bandanas, not scarves. You look like a server.”

“It is my day job. Quite similar to yours. In fact, I have seen you wear that top and those pants at work, girl.”

“Well, girl, all will become clear. We will probably end up running from the police. Now, here. Take this bin of banana nut muffins and hide in the alley while I set us up in front of the bakery. They open in fifteen minutes.”

“What the fuck are we doing here? Where did you get these muffins?”

“I stole them from this very bakery’s dumpster last night. It’s what they didn’t sell yesterday. Idiots even collected them up in the box you now hold, before throwing them out. They aren’t even dirty.”

“Per se.”

“Oh shut up and do what I asked you to. We are gonna be legends.”

“Only cuz I am curious. Also, no legend begins with a box of banana nut muffins.”

“Yeah. This will be the introduction to The Undercutters.”

“Like a prologue?”

“No. The prologue was yesterday’s conversation.”

“No one likes a story with too many opening vignettes. Especially ones about banana nut muffins.”

“Yeah, cuz they are gross. Thank god you wore such an embarrassing leotard under your cover. Stripping off the black clothing to reveal a leotard? That will become legendary when you run from the police.”

“Why are we worried about cops? That’s a bit distressing. Especially since you keep calling us Undercutters.”

“Oh stuff it dummy. And, please, we are The Undercutters. “Undercutters” just sounds stupid. Let’s get set.”

“I need to know: have we brought muffins to a knife fight?”

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The Undercutters: Prologue

“I couldn’t get accreditation. I simply lack credibility.”

“Too damn incredible, eh?”

“Am I working too hard?”

“Harder than most.”

“Then have I diminished my own returns?”

“Maybe.”

“I have a business proposal: The Undercutters.”

“Go on.”

“Meet in front of the bakery at 8 a.m. tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Wear two layers of clothes. All black on the exterior, but colorful clothing beneath. Bring a bandana. We may wanna cover our faces.”

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Ways of seeing.

Forward and up.

A tightrope walker knows to not look down

when toeing a path

across the line.

When nothing makes sense

Abandon yourself to the terrorifically awful awesome.
Control and compliance, there is a

subtle difference in

Ways of Seeing.

Berger the Maverick.

“Perspective centers everything on the eye of the beholder.”

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Star shine Aeroplanes.

So, you want me to make you see stars?

Well, every star I thought I saw turned out to be an airplane: he says.

Then,

It’s the way you whisper: he says.

It’s the way you listen: I whisper.

I anneal you in my flame of mercy, matchstick boy man.

A merciful burning.

Of transformation.

Howling comes at a steep cost in the currency of my benevolence.

Merciless and pleasing.

Gravity such as this eats me whole

Specks float in my vision lay-line

throughout these speculation, induction blues.

Blurs the crispness

Howl glad I am to smell this cold air

and, feel it taste my nostrils.

Rising.

Like foals, frisky, on a winter morning.

Catching a chill without getting cold.

A light blinks next door,

Like the last time a wanton man winked at me.

To shrug it off or shake it out, baby?

Of course, Ariadne howls feral heat at her latest revelation.

Ventilator, I am?: she asks, but really says.

I cannot be the first and I know I shalt not be the last.

I say I am not special and you say this makes me special

And I wonder: how much is mocking and how much is kindly.

And I ask you: distinguish for me the difference between illusion and delusion?

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A Coy Pond

A

Deritive is an infinite difference.

An

Integral is an infinite sum.

That’s why they are

Inverse operations.

The difference between contrived and derived

can be found in the [con] of poor artistry.

Decoy or coy?

I am not unlike a koi pond: he responds.

What, swimming in your own shit under bridges you may not cross?: I challenge.

Everytime with this one: we both think

but, we do not say.

Can you cross the zigzag bridge over my fish head: he koi-ly bubbles.

Oh howl you want to know if I am a demon, hum huh?: I think.

Yeah, I can. Many times have I crossed the eight branches of an iris-strewn river. You are merely a pond, doll. Turning left, turning right? Not problematic to a whirling dervish. A modern ballerina. Do you, sweet koi, have the tenacity of a salmon?: I say.

Can you cross my moonbridge?: I ask

Do you have the potential energy required to achieve the kinetic momentum required to overcome the archway: I wonder.

~

An enlivening of a skin abrasion.

A salmon swimming upstream.

Bears with fish scales stuck between incisors.

~

Rub it til it bleeds, said PJ Harvey.

Clears my crown and your heads.

You wait seven days.

It keeps you, freshly.

It keeps you integral and not derivative.

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Mountain presses sky

A rising reddening mountain

set against my pink sky.

States of matter change.

Snow returns to the peak,

with the seasonal shift.

Dripping downwards.

More will follow,

like bulbs remembering how to

burst forth in full bloom,

after being held back in a hard

petal enclosure.

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Hosting Flaneurs

The chill in the air smells like the last time I fell in love.

Knitted woolen leg warmers donned. Chestnut brown and unraveling from overuse.

My sister gave me three pairs, last year.

“You want, like, Flash Dance legwarmers for your birthday?” she asked.

“Yeah, I am standing on my toes these days.”

An hour ’til I walk to the restaurant.An hour of coffee, words, and nicotine.

I will pluck my heavy comforter (trans. duvet) from storage after work.

I seat a one top.

Coffee?: I ask

I insist on it: he says.

We have that in common.

No cream. Bring white sugar if you have it: he says.

White sugar?: I think.

Kat, do we have white sugar already on the table?: I ask, unsure what white sugar means.

Bleached sugar, you mean?: she asks.

Smiling, I say: dunno. He wants white sugar. Those words.

Well, we have raw sugar, nutrisweet, sweat n’ low, and truevia in packets on the tables. We have Splenda packets here, just in case. Brown sugar for breakfast…:

The dishwasher (who provided his own sobriquet [call me MC BlackCoffee: he told me, when I first started] ) interrupts her.

He wants this: he says, holding a shaker the size of two coffee cups stacked on top of each other.

What kind of sugar do you call this: I ask him.

The good kind: he says.

We need to reevaluate your nickname. Sugared coffee is not black coffee: I tease.

Don’t change the color, does it?: he nods, smiling.

Server T. touches my shoulder: the guy at table six has a book for you.

Oh, word. I was hoping he would make good: I say.

How do you know him? He wasn’t sure if you were the right person. Plus, you just seated him.: he says confused and a bit irritated I had let one guy sit at his four top.

I don’t know him. I didn’t recognize him: I reply.

He shrugs. I smile.

Two nights ago, I discovered this server knew philosophy as well as, if not better than, me. And, he discovered a coworker that could keep up with him. We had discussed the very book table six has brought me. He seemed happy.

~

I met table six when he came in for breakfast a few days before. I noticed him reading a Martin Gardner book.

I dig that guy: I say.

This seventyish year old man looked up at me. I recall one eye not opening all the way, although both eyes appear open today.

I found Hofstadter, Penrose, and Feynman through him: I say.

He stared at me.

He wants to be left alone: I think.

I walk away, after offering: I’ll leave you to enjoy.

As he left, he stopped by my hostess post and asked: how did someone your age find out about these guys.

Well, I was ten years younger in Alabama selling collegiate clothing in a boutique and I got very bored.

~

I go up to table six. He has brought me his second copy of Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid, thoughtfully wrapped in plastic as it rains heavy. This was a gateway book for me and I lost my copy during my move from AL to WA. I am thrilled a copy has found it’s way back to me.

What kind of restaurant is this? You and my server is a philosophy graduate.: he says, looking quite serious.

One that is open to hiring ex-academic flaneurs: I joke.

I have him sign and date the book.

By the way, your server is also a third degree black belt: I mention.

~

Server T says: Don’t you think it’s funny we were just talking about that book the other night?

Ha, I am surprisingly unsurprised. Things like this happen a lot to people like us, don’t you think?: I respond.

Well, I think there would be some observer bias in such a thought: he says, quite rightly.

But, observer bias is unavoidable by definition because we are observers at every moment. What are your thoughts on metaphysics?: I push him.

I try to avoid metaphysics. Too messy.: he says, walking away.

Yeah, yeah. That’s what all you philosophers say these days. Too messy and too close to mysticism: I call out as much to myself as to him.

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Dream of a rude awakening

A pair of legs splayed to show well placed snaps.

“Undo them.”

That’s what he said.

I do.

“You want to feel the rise of my serpent up your spine’s

base.”

I roll over for this rude awakening.

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Æ whispering to Parçigal

You want me to write right now, right?: I ask.

Yes: he says.

Well, I want you to stay hard; and I want to talk to Maplethorpe. So…you win because I am tip tapping. Here’s my hangup. These housemates of mine are always here. In the living room. I am trying to read/-a-just to being around people. Where can /I/ make My noises? Where do /i/ do my movements? Their energy is perceived by me as invasive. Encroachment on my energy. They feel like hungry animals. I let it oppress me because all my energy is focused on not regressing. I think I have achieved this ability, to not let myself regress. I now move to the next challenge of not having my energy allowed to be oppressed. Because this feeling is what leads me to want a beer. Taking drugs is taking sacrament to me. Purposed and not medicine. I am now able to recognize when I drink to sedate and when I drink to take sacrament. This is step one. I move to the two step now. Giggle [cuz giggle is the way I get by, {h/owl} ].

I gave everything to my metaphysical considerations because why the h/owl else do we keep on keeping on? I found treasure so I try to be patient with myself as i face the consequences. Even if I had found nothing, I would be patient with myself. But, reliance on the others in my life seems more for their peace of mind. But, such a statement is on me. I wilt figure out how to make manifest the opportunities available to me.

And, you need to buy shoelaces, so you can walk more: he kindly whispers.

Thank you. The difference between a chastisement and a kindly reminder.: I say: I must like you.: I say in honest exhalation.

Have you eaten?: he asks.

Kind. No. Only beer. I am not hungry; but I want to eat. What do you make of that?: I ask.

Oh, just like the good old days. I know what you mean.: he says but guesses.

Thank you for telling me what you think about that which you do not know: I groan, wet now: ewe make me smile. I wilt reward you for this, in my way.

(My eyebrow arches; because I like it when you say:

She cums.)

What if this is all one, big lucid dreaming experiment?: I conjecture, in fantasy.

What does that mean?: he quietly, quite justly asks.

Good question. Ask me again in a day and I can say it better. Rumination.: I say.

You said you could tell me about one of your three triple embodiment experiences.: he reminded.

I can do that. Be patient. I have been virgin, mother, and crone in body and mind between the last five years. Virgin to the sulky, sociopath, mother to the recovering addict, (I re enlivened him thru his will), then I became single and rekindled by the other one. I gained 60 lbs as mother, but have not ever become pregnant. I lost 60 becumming virgin, Artemis, despite having slept with men. I am the she Archer and some hunters chose to fall with me.

I thought you were Parçigal: he says.

I am many things and my head hurts: I say.

You drank two pints: he replies.

Uh hum, huh. Water. Hummus. A ham sandwich with mayonnaise, lettuce, and tomatoes.

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Gore Vidal vs Norman Mailer | The Dick Cavett Show

This gal loves a good interview with interesting speakers.

Lou Reed, Lucinda Williams, Neil Young, Johnny Lydon, the list goes on,

Anon, anon.

But, this one….oh howl, I love this one.

A rare confluence of different energies, including the audience’s, along with a tennis-like art of arguement.

Style.

I love hyper-intellectuals flying their idiosyncratic flags.

“I am here and I am becoming very, very bored.”

“I have to tell you a quote from Tolstoy?”: Cavett to Mailer.

“Are you really all truly idiots, or is it me?”: Mailer to audience.

Howlaciously howlarious.

“It was the voice of Legion’s.”

“The difference is I’d savo(u)r the quote and you’ve thrown it into the battle.”

“Oh, for goodness sake.”

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Metaphysics

What of the things after the Physics?

The left over ones.

The ones with red x’s painted in the blood of autumnal sacrifices of

sweet satyrs and wicked mares.

Pass(ed) over during the Harvest.

Prepare for the final plague and

yet another Exodus from Egypt.

Recall: a tarbush is not a fez.

One have women worked under feet for ewe.

One has not but is not naught.

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Liquid Breezes

The curls of my hair,

a kelp forest waving in the currents

of the jet streams and trade winds.

I deal in oxygen as well as molecules of water.

I may suspend myself in the watery depths,

adjusting my buoyancy.

I may crest your foaming waves to reach the sky,

propelled by the energy of

the momentum of your surface tension,

; and, catch the breeze with my fins

which, repurposed, are now little wings.

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1st order nonsense

I hear you in magical, howling waves.

As though howling at me,

for me.

I remember standing in your circular hall, situated in front of one of twelve windows. I could only see eleven.

Just as I k/now-sees your strange, blue table has only three legs,

Æ believe twelve is your number.

I fell for the Baker and his dozen of thirteen and thirty one.

AL LA

These I found in your thirty six chambers (the dirty version).

What of the power of inaction?

I have seen it. I am re enlivening the power of actions.

Asserting my attention so that it becomes attuned to

My intent to action.

What of your golden cauldron and collar?

The triple obelisk etching adorning the table

and, your fine robe.

The position of your fingers.

An empty hand and a bespoke hand which

furls, clasping like a talon.

There shines the indigo light

about the crown of your skull, wild one.

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Dream of vulpes vulpes & serpent

I dreamt I was a sweet, sly serpent.

I wrapped myself around you, into a möbius strip.

Eating my own tail.

Skin ceaselessly shifting

and sliding against yours.

We wrestled playfully in the numina of everywhere and

know-where.

Your face flowed like magma, between two appearances: the face of a man burning into that of the red fox.

My infinite sliding scale skin tethered your temporary

states of flux.

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Fall for the Fool.

There I was in the sunny shine shiny.

Apposite the Alps, wearing my best burlap, with berry and leaf applique.

Knapsack number eleven over the left shoulder, loosely slung.

Greyhound, red eyes, nipping at the ankles of my bare feet.

Onward, onward.

Stepping over the cliffside.

Behind me to the right, the foal of a chestnut mare looks on,

intently,

at the journey of

This Fall,

Or perhaps, s/he was just eyeing the ten and one, white lillies to my left:

I think

whilst falling,

yet still, and

looking up upon.

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Daily duality of scents

I watch the water mist itself seamlessly into the sky.

The ferryman drives his cargo across the water

to my c shore.

I espy your spies and I show them kindness as

you cannot

show yourself.

In black velvet with a white silk tie

necked,

I bought the garb earlier today. It smells old.

It smells like the previous owner.

Trading Tigers.

The pink votive, colour of my heraldry,

burns oily shadows into the chilled airs.

The intermingling of the scents tricks my nostrils

into sensing you.

And, the last sip of water from this glass tastes like salt

off the thinnest part of your skin.

It invokes the duality within.

Ariadne and Artemis.

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Before the autumnal fall of Artemis the Archer

Before sound, there was vibration

with no auricular structure to perceive it.

Before these trinities came dualities.

Before syncretism came juxtaposition.

Before leverage moved mountains

and swept us off our feet,

the mechanical principle

existed unnamed.

All awaiting discovery

in this hollow solidity.

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Bongwater – Peel Session 1991

No rights: homage.

Also, homage to this channel, which posts Peel Sessions.

Track one had better put a smile on everyone’s face with its rambunctious ramblings. It’s only slightly raunchy, you’ll hardly even notice.

Track two gives a softer side. The addition of “yet” to “you don’t love me” charms me.

Track three: /maybe I’m getting too old for this but I don’t know what else to do….yeah/

Track four: remembrance of things past.

Sidenote: bongwater, like tape heads, should be cleaned regularly. Giggle.

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Postures

I have a low tolerance for intolerance; and it can

deplete me.

We know from experience;

We assume in theory.

Our time-cost scale.

In response to my own question:

Yes, it is true.

My power is my prize.

Energetic consent up my salmon ladder is not costly, necessarily, but

is required.

An ability to articulate makes a piece of game

highly prized.

You want to fell a lioness?

Good.

Then, take down the two lions, knelt at

the left and right sides.

They were not asked to attend.

No compulsion.

They are here because they wilt to be.

Unnamed but not inane.

And, you shalt deal with them,

should you choose to confront with an affront.

Out through the nose: 1.

In through the nose: 2.

Out through the mouth: 3.

In through the nose: 4.

Out through the nose: 5.

In through the mouth: 6.

Out through the mouth: 7.

In through the nose: 8.

When you can walk and repeat this breath cycle

three consecutive times,

let me know.

Did you drink that bottle of water? Yes?

Good. You will lose it.

Did you bring a sweatband for your brow? No?

Good. The salt will sting your eyes.

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Tight lips and all.

There is nothing I would imbibe to dull this edge,

but memories of you which I may use, spurning future potentialities.

You help me project myself into the future.

I lay-line.

Silly, sad boys abound, but I see depths in your aged eyes.

Your crows well-footed and begging,

leaving their foot tracks below your lower lids.

They are just as fine when you smile as when you frown.

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Entropic Redirection

This entoptic perspective we are individually bound to

drives me wild,

then feral.

These entotic sounds and whispers arouse.

Your hints and secrets spur.

I wear the stripe of an island.

Heraldry.

An entropic endeavor.

My vizard is my visage.

And with a double V.

VV.

I derive double ewe.

Ewer a W, you.

And, from my mask a

wizard re-enlivens.

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Assertive Ask[d]ance

Your enervated state is the reason why I request your prostration.

I do not require it; but,

I wilt accept it from you.

Until you understand this, I can neither refill nor refine you.

Your acquiescence does not appease me; but rather[,]

(It may prove to please me)

enables you.

Do not give me attitude simply because

your lassitude overcomes you, wild thing.

I know how to respond; but,

do you know how to af-

firm that you need a demon cleaner?

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Speculatively responsive

Did you think about what I said?: he asked.

(My nostrils flare)

I said: You said alot; but, yet again, I thought more about what you did not say.

I tried to answer your questions: he said.

I guess I’m more interested in what you think about the questions you don’t know how to answer: I reply.

I don’t know what to say about that which I do not know: he said.

Soft words, volutary: I respond: what did your mind howl in

speculative

response and resistance?

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A strike of a light stroke

Before photons,

ours was

the luminiferous ether, the medium through which light moves.

falling like waves

Issuing ever out in concentric circles

(within concentric circles)

《[Ego centrism

Of gEo centrists.

A vessel never falls off the horizon.

Our sight line drops off; and

the feet of another appear to

grow smaller (and smaller)

as s/he walks away from you.》

But, there was no motion detected.

A wave and a particle,

both either, as well as neither,

hidden ether.

Rods and shafts of sunlight.

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Blustery and Blushing

A crisp breeze whips through us as we walk.

I look to your forearms

in anticipation.

Each breaking out in thousands of little goose pimples.

Reddening the skin.

Your face flushes as your blood vessels respond to the

change in ambient temperature.

It turns you to a blushing man.

Your eyes go childlike and I can imagine

your childhood face, even though I have never seen it.

The one you wore when you were fresh and new.

Before you knew how time flows

and before all that time flowed you.

Back when all you knew was feeling.

Before you had knowledge, before you wanted to have more knowledge, before you needed to prove things.

Before you knew that you know nothing.

A ray of light projects itself through the grey day’s smokey cloud cover.

It reenlivens your skin tone.

You thaw.

And, I wonder: where were you the very first time

sunlight kissed you and

began stripping away

your skin’s virginity.

In private, I will observe your bare form.

Looking for tell tale signs distributed and

laying across every inch of you.

I will trace my fingers along and press my lips to each revelation

of how you became what you are.

Sudan Archives – Glorious

No rights: homage to music new to me.

The feminine yet uniquely honest sound coupled with the visual sense of movement.

The interplay of gender.

Of calm and distress.

Tension of bound strings against percussion.

Just lovely.

Glad they make and share.