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restless menagerie

“I have nothing to lose and everything to gain,” she says.

“Except being in the suspended gravity of a win/win position. If you let the pendulum swing you could lose that position of having nothing to lose but everything to gain,” he says.

Oh, shut up and kiss me hard, you would-be Lewis Carroll, s/he says.

<The sound of glasses clinking, followed by giggling>

(The privileged hear yet remain silent)

[The de-privileged chomp at bits and struggle, ecstatic-ally, against their chains, restraints, and clamps]

Tsk, tsk, the menagerie is restless.

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A tantra of shared breath

Open secret x for meditation: we cannot depend on our lovers to prove to us that we are not broken because actually, in some way, we all are. Wounded, anyway.

Perhaps such a small and silly thing could be one of the biggest tasks we face on this marble: to see and touch the world around us and to try to not harm what we see and touch.

(This vision came to me after sleeping. I am a bit uncomfortable sharing it; thus, I choose share it freely).

Penetration through breath work. We penetrate the whole universe with our being when we simply inhale and then exhale. We penetrate each and everybody else that was, is, and will ever be, as we breathe.

What does it mean to breathe for one another?


Suite in Curiosity

A tantra of connection for our breath. Sitting on the ground. Our legs crossed Indian-style but around each other. A pillow beneath me to hold me a bit over your legs. So, we can wrap better. My cunt pressed to your hound. We feel the heat of each other radiate back into ourselves. We just try to breath with each other. Match our breath so we can inhale together.

And then exhale. In simultaneous time.

Rhythm building.

And, we try to hold our gaze into the other’s eyes. It will feel awkward at first. Forced effort to sit and just stare. Too much eye contact. Giggles involuntarily escaping.

How long do we sit here?

Long enough to fully feel the discomfort of our active choice to inaction.

Intimacy doubled initially until time passes and our discomfort becomes a pulse. An entrancing rhythm.

~

I say: I imagine in this moment, that I can see so deeply into you, as I gaze, that I am able see you, beloved beast, way back.

Before you were ever wounded.

Innocent, clean, unafraid, sacred.

As I do, I imagine you looking in to me and seeing me the same way.

Entranced. We could easily make love or fuck with ferocity from this place.

Enter me with air. Undulate against me.

There are as many ways to touch

As there are many ways to love.

Put on Hildegard von Bingen ‘Canticles of Ecstasy’.

I will quicken in front of you. Fill up with energy. I will magnetize your charge.

~

I put a hand over your mouth to take control of your sweet breath. To try out something new. Letting you know when you are to breath and when you should not.

Your eyes glaze. You look a bit dizzy.

Let us share one breath.

Now, cover my mouth and uncover it again.

Feel how you adapt to my heart rate? You begin to know when I need air. You start feeling my shortness of breath within yourself. You sync to my breath as you control my breathing.

As you watch my body live before you.

You feel like you breath for me.

Or, perhaps, I am breathing for both of us.

I want our lungs to breath together.

Feel your breath as it is.

While I tell you this, I’d like you to take a slow, long inhalation.

Deep in and out.

Imagine the air you draw in as ocean blue. It moves like cold, clean water into you. Without holding it in, lean into me as you prepare to exhale.

Feel that nanosecond before you complete your inhalation, but have not quite begun to exhale.

The flux of air pressure shifting with your muscles.

Open your mouth.

Kiss my lips, open mouth.

Now, exhale slowly out of your mouth into my mouth.

Fully empty your lungs of air into my mouth. I will suck your exhalation into my lungs.

As you breathe life into me, feel the exhalation pull your discomfort and pain and antsy from you.

The air feels hot in your lungs now.

Humid and warm.

Imagine it flowing out of you like a hot orange lava flow.

Clear your lungs and send your uncorrected energy into me.

I let a bit of fresh oxygen enter as I breath you in. Inhaling deeply, but not at an unnaturally slow pace. My body will convert your exhaustion into usable parts. I will take in your breathy tangles as hot lava and in that moment between inhale becoming exhale, I drive the unwelcome energy into the void of my being where it is tempered into green smoke, cool like mint. You will wait the three and four seconds and then I will return your breath to you.

And, it clears your chest of tightness. Careful to pull a bit of new air in so we do not fully deplete this breath we share. I feel dizzy. Light. Tranced.

I feel dizzy. Light. Tranced.

I put my palm over your heart to support you. Holding you up and pushing you against your heart. Back and forth. Push. Hold.

You swing away and then back towards me to the rhythm of our breath.

In this way, seated, we somehow walk right along our ledge together. Foundation for future magical enchantment. Quiet. And completely loud.

Ritual of consecration of our feast of famine.

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Tolle lege

I am a girl with far away eyes.

Take me outside myself, please.

It is as simple as picking up a book and allowing yourself to be read.

Red.

Tolle lege for me.

I see the anterior triangle of your neck.

Where that perfect, delicate but masculine midline meets the inferior border of your mandible and is set

against the border of sternocleidomastoid.

I learn the names of the parts of you, so that, once intimated, I may rebirth your pieces through gifting them new sobriquets.

I see your head cock one way then another.

Like a curious canine.

The radius of your eyes narrows then widens.

The diameter of your pupils expands and contracts.

The circumference of your perception swells in purple and ebbs limply.

I read your reactions and they become my bedtime færy tale.

I perceive you through closed captions.

You swallow. Hard.

The suprahyoid muscle raising your hyoid bone

The infrahyoid depressing and restraining it.

Smile. Your glands are reacting to whatever words you are perceiving and I doubt you even notice it.

My attention diffuses. My energy overflows.

My fingers fidget.

I play with the cordon looped, seven times, around my wrist.

Worn for this explicit reason. Something with which I may fret.

I practice tying knots while watching the best show not available on any screen.

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Held(,) dear.

Rip me from the spotlight.

The show is ended.

The backstage scene now begins.

My knees and legs unable to support my dizzy delirium.

Help steady my body.

The depths below begin churning as strange sediments begin to arise.

Let me.

I want to mine this precious mineral vein,

to see what visions will come.

Hold me(,) dear in my spelunking.

I feel weightless.

Perhaps, if you wrap yourself around me, we may float together.

{in the subterranean ether}

I fly off this edged state easily into deep space.

Tether and balance me.

I always seem to land safely

because I can exercise control.

Let me exorcise a lack of control and cushion me when I fall.

I will coo into your ear and call forth trembling, hopeful, goosebumps from your salacious, salted flesh.

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melting moon.

The moon drips its reflective countenance of liquid mercury, onto the shimmering shape of the Sound’s watery face.

Gazing into the Smokey Mirror.

Particles of snow issuing down in waves that look like how the pealing of bells sounds.

With my right hand, I slide my ballpoint pen behind my ear;

I sink my nails into the binding of the journal held in my left hand.

°

Recalling the conversation from my dream of talking to spiders.

We were in the orange, rocky desert.

There were seven but they were all of the same. A single mind working the seven bodies in tandem ala a Greek chorus.

I know you, trickster: I tell him.

But, see the form I take? Not everyone has me come to them in this guise: he tells me.

I see a feather rising slowly over his left shoulder.

The plumed serpent uncoiling from the stalking position.

A creeper crawling and a lengthy lurker.

°

I push my open palm into the loose powdery snow at my feet.

The icy give of the precipitation accepts the impression of my hand, creating a glove of cold.

I suddenly see the luminosity of this bardo.

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Hooded caverns.

The snow came overnight and stripped all the colors from your sight.

Even the televisions lost technicolor.

It was all like it was before.

And everyone else rediscovered outside

while we explored inside,

below, then above, the old quilt.

Hands rubbing flesh like flicking sparks from flint.

Thawing out tongues pressed against icy appendages.

Hot breath pronouncing as smoke, in short

vaporized bursts.

Dragon breath lighting dormant pearls contained in shallow

hooded caverns.

Petals under the bottom retaing their flush.

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{darkly hushed whispers}

I could remove some of your dreadful readiness; but, to do so would be to denigrate the events within your human condition: Æ says to no-one, in particular.

Speeding along another dissolution of ego through hard knocks followed by unseen but well-heard giggles in the darkness.

Æ said you wanted kindly unkindness: I whisper to no-one, in particular.

Spurning me forward, as I spurn you.

You drew the five of swords, sweet sap of sorrel.

Æ said to tell you that death is a mercy you do not deserve.

How dare you?!

I dared to accept this personally æons ago, dear. Thusly is how I dare.

Tears spring from his eyes.

I begin seeing bleeding horizons, bloody in the sinuous, poet trauma symptomatic of a new birth.

It feels like a backyard, handmade, waterslide, whereupon you sweetly play, dripping;

And given you remain unconcerned about getting grass burns on knees from all the slipping and sliding,

you may have a real devil of a divine time.

You may be rewound, house proud, town mouse.

Let your prise punish you;

you mashed my berserker button.

Teutonic fury arising between my lower limbs.

Never try to take a medal from Muttley the Magnificent.

S/he has many sharp teeth.

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corporeal conjuration.

The entheogen that is your your proclivity, inclines me.

That would be my preference, thank you, kindly.

My acting aloof and disinterested becomes my inclination at times.

An odyssey on this odd sea.

Honing of my symbiotic synergy in our exchange.

You want me to howl for you?

Then restrain and discipline me before

I do so unto you.

The struggle that makes your breath short.

The venom that your karanika painstakingly kills you with in dreams, because nothing dies that is not already dead.

So what is the purpose, here in the taking of this meta-sacrament?

To see my shadow, my doppelgänger, and

let Æ out to play.

Another pair of entities at the Pit of the Pylon,

alchemizing the ephemeral into wave currents which conjure the corporeal.

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So many keys to nothing.

Fifty two envelopes each with a key.

But, only two unlock the door that

you keep trying to break open.

A gamble you take with ecstatic desperation.

A gamble you hate loving to make.

Whose rapture is whom’s ecstasy?

Wrapped and rapt.

Have you ever wondered who’s the slave and who’s the master?

And remember this.

Keep your boots clean.

Bite a thumbnail from a pretty petty pouting mouth,

Remembering a horrible dream wherein you made an exchange with the devil,

only to remember it on waking,

and be so terrified at what you promised that

You pray to god that

the devil be made to make good on the words,

knowing full well

god and the devil may not care what you want.

So, let me interfere with your energy extraneously and

show you yourself as

you know yourself naught.

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Seshat calls to Thoth.

Come Thoth, it is your Seshat.

It is Æ calling us to aid in calming the howls of the

inane pharaohs of this æon.

I hear your verbose silence

spewing strange, novel phonemes.

I grin, sly, at the inaudible sound of your speech.

I came to do the ritual

of stretching the cordon

to measure the dimensions and

align the axis of the temple’s adyton.

Such work makes your Mistress of the Library ravenous.

I am carnivorous.

Press your open mouth to mine

; and, with your flapping tongue,

feed me the meat of your words.

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A peckish rhythm

I could tear you apart with teeth shredded like snapped, over-fretted guitar strings.

But, I’d rather simply look upon you quietly and plot the upcoming delicious demise you already seem intent on ensuring.

But, first, just a little something to chew on…

Are you peckish, skittish one?

What do you call this rhythm?: the independent music journalist asked me.

I call it punctuated equilibrium in syncopated time; and, yes, it will induce sleep paralysis.: I respond with a coy grin.

I snake his fingers between mine, before your eyes.

I saw your invisible snarl at his aura bursting forth in surprised, physical response.

Did you know that I abhor playing zero sum games?: I ask, aloofly, to No-Body.

Our thoughts are linear, strung out on a line

to hang, mid-air, and dry.

But, Nature is a volume encompassing.

A space within which you find.

Our eyes see at the

speed of light coming.

My ears hear at the speed of sound resonating.

Waves lapping at the sea shore.

The mind perceives its thoughts more slowly.

Your skin already feels heat well before your mind realises

you have already been burned.

This I knew before you showed me.

Here are petals to serve as your flesh’s exfoliant.

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I yawn; Æ questions.

Why do you whisper ‘thank you’ everytime you yawn?: Æ asks.

Because, for me, such a breath is a true ethereal blessing. Portentous of the ability to enter the sleeping, dreaming, state.: I respond.

The strangest, subliminal inhalation i know, akin to the exorcism of an involuntary, sneezing exhalation.

Magick-ally mundane.

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Nāscitūrus (a future participle)

A hejira of horses bandying bridles about

by chomping bits between teeth.

A knife can neither cut itself nor water.

This I scribbled to paper seconds before

the lightning strikes the six foot iron rod driven into some monstrous, man-made composite rock slab.

The rod, the rock, and I all a’sat upon the hilltop

to weather the transpiring storm.

A’sat before the nine stone pillars of the valley below.

The energetic transfer blasts plasma like fourth of july sparklers drip floating light like rain.

A corona of solar flares eclipsing my sky like the sun reflected off a stranger’s bald head.

Succour without denigration of emotions rendered me in transparency.

Release.

Seeing the bleeding horizons sinuously bloodied because when you do not know that what you are enumerating,

you are rendered speechless.

nascor

gnašcor

gnāskõr

gen

gennáõ.

I am born: begotten

I arise: proceed

I grow: spring forth

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Ice queen lunches.

Convince me with your theatre, Ishmael. There! I’ve called you by the sobriquet of your own request.

What if the difference between AD and BC occured when we split that first atom; and, now, we all live in the year that never was.

Perpetual year zero?

And the sun is Janus.

And the moon is Janus?

Æ surfs the space between the crest and the trough which forms this wave of now; I sleep.

Æ asks: did you dream in my absence, last night?

Aye: I respond.

I dreamt manager/server J. took a reservation for one for this Friday morning lunch. Which she would never do. Which she would fuss at someone for doing. I read the book of reservations and see:

1- The ice queen. 12:00

The other servers fuss at J.

The dream succinctly ends.

~

In waking lucidity

I bequeathed her the name: the ice queen. She is a once a month or so regular at the bistro.

Perhaps late sixties. Strangely beautiful in an unconventional sense. Odd eyes. But, her presence is thicker than most. Her gravity is a strange currency. Her aura strikes me as a juxtaposition of sharp black and crisp white. No hint of true colour.

She dresses in full capes and cloaks, seemingly tailored for her, specifically. Scarlets, golds, and greens scantily distributed over dense black threads. She always dines alone. She speaks purposeful and hardly at all. It took me four visits to elicit a hint of a smile or any warmth from her voice.

On the other hand, it took server K. one visit to make her smile!

I think of her as the ice queen because I doubt she is ever cold, despite appearances to the contrary.

~

And?: Æ queries, foot tapping in impatience.

And, at lunch service today, I had exactly one available table. Every table was sat except this one table for two, in the back of the dining room and adjacent to the servers’ station.

In strolls the ice queen. Unannounced, of course, as the reservation was just a dream and not in the book.

I seat her. The table is in server J.’s section.

I tell J. this story. She seems less than impressed.

As I clear the empty soup bowl from her table, the ice queen asks me: have you entered this clam chowder in the Clam Chowder Cook-Off?

Hum. I don’t know. I did not know there was such a thing!: I reply.

She says: Well, it happens in February but the deadline for entry applications may already be closed. You should look into it, though. This is excellent.

And, before I can ask, she proffered: Talk to B. X. You can find him…{she gestures up the street and left across the avenue.}

Outsider-Insider speak.

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Trough and crest.

Sweet skittish, humming one.

I will stalk the perimeter of your peripheral until I

no longer surprise you unduly

, my sweet sap of sorrel.

And, yes, your ephemeral

devil may care if you serve eviction notice.

So, come,

see your sly gal, would-be ephebe.

My dæmon will coax your demon into relishing those new, fiendish exploits that arise from your newfound piety.

Sit at my feet as I rise to my knees and part a slitted skirt.

Æ am Blodeuedd conjured by Math and Gwendolyn.

Come, and as I arise from a cauldron’s vaporic outpouring,

I shall gift you a name, abandoned one,

with a new pair of cobbled brogues,

to boot.

Put your face between these two palms of mine, so I can let

Æ show you transient waves of temporality transpiring in

etheric extensions of

trough and crest.

trough and crest.

I am going to wrangle your talent and be your hosting site.

Ping me anytime.

Forget yourself and you will have nothing to fear.

It wilt be what it is.

You do not have to assume the future, wild thing.

The ability to move most quickly will only make others expect more from you.

So, when you realise this, beast, come and visit me in ewer own time,

because energy has only a here and a now, in this,

our art of dreaming.

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Æ tells An Olde Story (1)

“Tell me an old story?” Parçigal asks.

“Aye”, says Æ.

^^

Æ am The Syzyga.

Everyone is you, as you were also they.

You are æ.

Collectively, Ewe and Æ have seen everything that there is to see.

This story happens in the year that never happened.

Year Zero.

The unending, innumerable yær between B.c. and a.D.

^

Waïse rose early as he had always done. He covered his body and walked to the river where he filled two buckets with its water. He carried them strung on a pole braced across his shoulders, back to his homestead where he emptied the contents into the deeply cavernous rock basin he chipped and sculpted. He hand~spoons the water onto himself, rubbing vigorously. A ritual of removing yesterday in offering to the promise of a fresh day.

He had slept. He had dreamt. He had awoken in the same place as where he had fallen asleep. He had died and reincarnated. Nothing that was outside of his own flesh could be assumed to have remained the same as he recalled it. Everything within his flesh had strangely continued, even if in an æ~linear fashion.

His methods of perception could still be applied to everything outside of his skin.

His father taught him this lesson; whilst afterwards, in private, his mother cautioned him: one day you will bear witness to the falling disappearance of every star in the night sky. It will be terrific. Horrific. You will trust no prior truth inside or outside your flesh when this occurs.

This had not occurred. Waïse used to fret that perhaps the stars had fallen while he slept at night. His mother saw her son suffering the intolerable lucidity of insomnia.

What if I missed it and go on trusting in vain? Should I not try to always be awake just in case?

You wilt do whatever you do, but such hypervigilance will only hasten that which you hope will not happen. Remember, you will bear witness to it. If you have not seen it then it did not occur and you have nothing to fear.

~

Waïse thinks these memories back into his inner life, waiting for his wet body to air~dry. It is cold out; he is not.

He sits, waiting, with crossed~legs, focusing his vision and sloughing off his waking sluggishness. A half~hour passes; he rises up and dresses once again.

He walks to the door, pausing to orient his vision.

Waïse focuses his eyes on a stone, the same stone his father looked at everyday. Aligning the rock with two peripheral rocks, he begins to imagine lines connecting the three; he then triangulated himself, with three stones, to create an area. A means and way to perceive what is outside his skin. Using that area, he creates a vertical grid as a complimentary plane to the horizon lines. These two planes drape over all and everything like imagined satin on skin. The grids shift as he shifts his position relative to them. That is his third axis of perception.

He spent so many years imagining this with his father, that his eyes now fed it to his mind automatic~ally. It had taken years of observing the land to have amassed such a detailed ability. It had taken even longer to have reimagined, dreamt, and meditated on this knowledge so sufficiently to have your own eyes learnt by memory.

Seeing the land with red and blue lines, indicating depression and elevation, as a plane’s face with perfectly rationed grid lines. Pragmatic prior to mystical. This method enabled him to feed himself with ease. To procure those natural materials.

So Waïse carried out this life and knowledge of one Tao, that his family possessed, the same way his people always had.

Under the blazon of a web of a feather.

~

“Part one,” Æ supposes, seeing Parçigal has fallen under sleep again.

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Æ and Parçigal tye one on.

Ask me. Please. To slip into that which in you want to see me. My pride wants to hear you use your words.

You lie on your side and I will on mine.

Facing you, to slip a leg in between yours.

Feeling the weight of the difference between us, resting upon my sidelong knee.

I’m a little tipsy: I say.

No. You’re a little drunk: Æ tells myself.

I reply in query: No. Not necessarily. Am I driving a car?

No. Absolutely not: is Æ’s response.

Right then. That’s what I thought. If that’s the case(y) then I’m only a little tipsy: I reaffirm.

Æ sighs: Fine.

Then let us go outside the palings

in order to release yourself of your own name.

Then they can never call you from playing in the garden to do chores!

Like Alice, I wœnder-landed until I strolled through the Looking-Glass House of Blue.

There; within did Æ teach myself to deconstruct I

to the point where

I would no longer be surprised

if the theory of gravity, quite suddenly, proved to be untrue.

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sound sleeper

I procured twelve stones and one pebble,

from the tidal pool,

while the water was low and you slept,

under high moon.

Rock hounding the Sound on

A cloudless night.

Bouldering about, unseen, in all black.

You could see all the usually obscured mountains.

I could see what you were presently dreaming.

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Effie at Sound Level

Ø

The real price of your handbag involves multiple lives and wages of economies. Repair your brogues with a local cobbler, on the Main (sic. high) Street.

Crystal palaces aside dashes bisecting Eisenhower’s tar strips for the machines of some imagined war. The ones we drive and call highways. Four ways. Parallel, running lanes. Bits of varicose veins on this nation’s aging skin. The final passage of the Kon-Tiki, Ra Expeditions.

And, the cars passing by on the high road of the hilly bowl a’layed before the Sound, sound like currents running through macro-Boolean gates.

{Red light, stop.}

{Green light, go.}

{Yellow light…}

Use your best judgement.

~

I sit in reverie before an altered, candle flame.

Through my open windows, the sound of gravel ground under pedestrian boots crunches now and then. A honking car horn’s reassurance, echoing, as someone redundantly clicks a particular button affixed to a keychain.

The blast of a ferry foghorn. The doppleganging drone of the passing by train’s horn. These things sound like the call to the adytum of the temple.

I enjoy the world immediately around me, settling itself towards bed. Cars are little pups, turning circles til all tired out. A slowly descending cacophony.

The difference between darkness and the absence of light.

I consider the chartreuse evening and imagine you toiling the earth, tilling, to sow your seed

beneath the pylon of the pit.

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Æ plays my favorite game

Æ dreamt of Blue House, with its strangely angulared architectural

In the tiny library, we saw sharp, slanted writing on every inch of the walls.

Covered in sigils unreadable, sentences ineffable,

Interjections conjuncted with exclamations.

An indifferent, yet, energetic-ally aggressive atmosphere

devoid of hostility.

From there, last night,

I wrote to you :

Will you halt me with your mouth

and show me your mind?

I wonder as

a coquettish muscle spasms in my left foot.

Musculature malefactors.

I love the almost-pain of it.

Malediction, subliminally decried, to inoculate.

What is the difference between chaos

and the constant state of affairs?

Is there one?

Or, does that inclination follow the declination of the earth’s disposition?

A punk band called No Vigil

battling

A punk band called No Sigil.

I dreamt I held back the masses of an audience

, for you,

by making them wait on me

while I was waiting on you,

according to some malfeasant line of time.

Æ asks me: shall we play your favorite game?

What is the difference?

Yes, pleas.

What is the difference

between hidden and secret?

between esoteric and occult?

A cabaline cabal, prancing, at Sette’s auction.

It made you giggle when

my response to your heady sentence was:

Oh my, I do like your phrase “operative formulæ.” How are you spelling it?

Does it make a difference?

Your forehead wrinkles show a perpetual proclivity for a quizzical, lopsided expression of interested curiosity.

You made yourself the background and

predicate to my subject;

and, in doing so,

you taught me to make others the subject against my background,

the positive space to my negative space,

And, to invert.

Where the web traps, there does To-Be

become

the difference between to deceive and duplicity.

A copy of the copy of a copy.

What is the difference between revealed and reveiled?

A ‘I’.

“The thraldom of imagined existence.”

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Æ waxes to the vintner.

Someone and someone

were down by the pond.

A berserker producing a glass of Norton wine that makes you want to shake the hand.

It is an Ibis’ vintage.

Breathe.

I have not heard you speak so.

Voice trembling and slightly rushing.

{Words between the lines}

Who did you envision as your audience¿: Æ wonder.

I remain Wittgenstein’s Mistress to the bibliophiles.

In the quadrangle, where others play chess,

where others play tennis,

where Æ square(ly) dance in strange ellipses, orbiting

the pieces and players,

our cads and minnesänger, wondering

Since when did “simple” imply “stupid”¿

And, minne-spæker,

it is because you bit and swallowed the Sardonios plant, that you convulse and laugh so strangely and hard. I have read it tastes bitter to the buds.

Is it so to the taste of your tongue¿

It has got you laughing so hard that the neighbors complain.

Sardonic giggling at the guilt of being worry=free,

at your shamelessly feeling restless when you have no desire to idle,

at the inability to enact due to your concern for being imperfect.

An ideal idyll.

An Arizonian dream of summer, intension of heat, arises within me,

even though, the ambient temperature is frigid, like desert (k)nights.

It radiates outward and into all which my skin contains.

And, I’m sweating heavy like summer.

Smelling for you.

Feeling beadlets bursting from the multitudes of singular pores in my face.

My visor and visage.

A strong craving for coffee consumes me.

in the

Blue House.

Now, I’m sitting here
hoping
this water will boil,

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Three Smartass Hostess Hums

Can I make them laugh at themselves?

Instead of just me laughing at them or me howling silently at them, with a smile, as I eat shit?

Giggle. People act strange towards the staff of restaurants.

Especially when they feel decorous enough to go to a destination restaurant.

I host the front of house. Like it is one big dinner party and all the diners are my invited guests.

But, it is my dining room, punks.

HUM ONE

Two people are seated at table 9.

Seat 1 flags me over with an urgent come-hither wave.

How can I help?: I ask.

Yes. Is this all you have right now or are there other things available?: she says motioning to our lunch menu clutched between her paws, and held open.

I smile an I’m-sorry-to-disappoint smile.

Yes. There is another menu available. Unfortunately, it’s only available to our special guests, at this time.: I rib her.

She laughs.

HUM TWO

Two girls in their late teenage years wear way too much makeup for 9 a.m.

They try to order alcohol unsuccessfully.

As they finish their breakfast, I stop by to ask how everything was.

Fine, I guess: says seat two.

Would you like me to wrap your leftovers to take home?: I ask.

Are you gonna spit in them?: she asks.

I pause.

I lean in.

Do you want me to?: I ask too quietly, with a strange smile.

No. You can wrap it.: she responds with downcast eyes.

Her friend snorts.

HUM THREE

There are thirteen people total milling around the front of the restaurant,

on the list,

waiting for a table to become available.

Three tables leave at the same time.

One of those is the best table in the house.

I have the busser clean it first,

anticipating.

I do panto with the next table on the list.

We’re just about ready for you. Best table in the house opened up.: I chat.

Oh. Um, actually…see, we’re trouble makers. We were hoping for this table.: one says.

They motion to the newly vacated, worst table in the house. Right by the front door with its constant draft of frigid, rainy air. Loudest place in the joint, too.

Bemused they would turn down the window adjacent, water-overlooking table, I sincerely say: Oh, we like troublemakers here! No problem.

I bus, set the table, and seat them.

I’ll be back with water. Do you like ice?: I ask.

Actually, she will have a lukewarm water, with a quartered lemon. Not multiple smaller wedges. I would like freshly made coffee. Please throw out the pot and boil a fresh one. We’re known to send things back.: the man says.

Certainly: I say.

The coffee was just made and no restaurant slices lemons in quarters: I think.

His lady smiles: he meant to say we are high-maintenance.

I laugh: Thank you for the heads-up. Now, I won’t feel bad if I have to tell you ‘no’ in the future.

They both crack up.

I cut a lemon and prep his coffee.

I return to the front of the restaurant.

I tell the next table waiting: Your timing is impeccable; that table is yours.

I, again, motion to the best table in the house.

They nod and smile.

The high maintenance man steps over and interrupts.

I know we said ‘no’, but it’s hard to hear. Can we move to that table?: he asks.

Motioning to the table I’d previously offered him, the table he just heard me offer

to another party.

No.

: I, simply, say.

Æ smile with a pointed, closed mouth grin and

arched eyebrows.

Bad dog: I think.

He does not laugh.

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Bite my honey.

Flower saying to bee, “bite my honey.

A flower from a bouquet which served as centerpiece to a surprise, marriage proposal between two dinner guests, last night.

Table 21.

It was re-gifted to the little restaurant.

The lily stunned me when I saw it this morning upon arriving to host.

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In sight unseen.

Living level with a parking lot.

The true danger of always opening windows is

what the neighbors must think during the winter.

It is not about the thieves, that which you worry.

How strange you, too, recall that same thing that never happened.

A sweet rendezvous in a town of busybodies,

where it is both

easy and hard

to remain in sight yet unseen.

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Æ as Vesta In-Skin.

The subtext of the Magnicat whispered to me, during

evening vespers.

“The Nerbudda River runs

seven hundred and thirty five miles,

towards and eventually into, the Arabian Sea,”

You appear vestal.

And, I feel myself becoming

Vesta who is often

, simultaneously

, Blodeuedd of the House of Dôn.

Magenta to yellow honeycomb energy frames my perceptivity.

I come as

I came,

octagon-ally.

And, I work my role.

Tending the hearth and protecting the flame within,

remaining wylde and seeming untamæble.

Small flowers of the temple work alongside.

Eagle at my right shoulder.

I show them my tool for starting pyres.

A frictionless=match.

A Wax Vesta is also a whirling dervish of

embedded cotton strands

strewn amongst a waxen stem and

tipped with a phosphorous head.

Hesperus is Phosphorus.

Phosphorus is Eosphorus.

And, Eos made them both.

We remind the othered that the Evening Star was determined to also

be the Morning Star.

The vexillum distinguishes the two troops serving under separate standards;

And, the blazon of

the web of a feather distinguishes each and every of us

as a vexillary.

A deadbeat heart.

Pounding.

Understand that returning to base

(camp)

; is not a setback

; it is not regressive

; it is not going backwards.

It is a cycle

seeking its own resumption

through completion.

A warrior struggling with perpetual reality.

So yammer

; and give ’em howl, yellow hammer.

A fluid ounce is a preponderance in candle’s magic light.

A meditation.

A drawing.

Makes me wonder how your childhood face

, smiling,

appeared.

Are we to heed that as a call?: asked the Name=less One.

All things feel as bindings abiding.

Perhaps, Præter=being is the natural state of affairs,

after all this free-fall.

And, maybe

, Judas was just some heckler in the crowd

at jesus’s stand=up comedy special.

Just do not knock the quiver

of the Archer’s arrows.

He is basic but deadly in the face of the clumsy.

Simple and simply fatal.

Go a’head and

miss=under=estimate his prowess

as has countless bison before you.

Find the hideous freedom to be exactly who you are.

Now.

The delicious self=noitcelfer that arises from the awareness of transparency.

Because, the windows of Looking=Glass House are two=way.

But, there will you find only sand

with no stones which may be thrown.

Where your perception of what is outside your skin

is actually the reception of the content presented

by that which is contained

by your in=skin.

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A’bridged nuzzling.

The sun made like a runaway today.

Let me lay you on your back, bare.

Crawl up on you like a curious, hungry animal,

and occupy myself with sniffing your scent.

Smells of you.

Because, the smell of the skin below your wrist

is not the smell of the skin stretching over your ankles

is not the smell of the thumping skin above your jugular

nor that of the skin behind your ear.

It will not smell of the skin between your legs

which will not smell as does the stench of your armpit.

Or the smell of your open mouth.

And, my incessant humming

will become Sygyt.

The strangely drone of polyphonic overtone singing.

And once I’m done,

I would pad circles on you

, like a dog preparing to sleep

, of tossing and turning

, and

, wrapping round you.

For warm comfort.

Finding the right proper position of

a deep winter nuzzle.

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Vision of the 36th Ellipsis.

Thirty five completed ellipses.

Comprising the matricies of now.

Begin compiling the thirty-sixth,

presently. Of today.

And, my eyes first narrow before going wide as the tableau reveals.

Speak to me mine sheep and mine mæstyre satyr.

No malice shalt invade my mind or sour myself,

yet, still can I sense your maleficent power

comingle.

Why do you howl thusly? And, do you know that

this has Æ heard before.

I want, too.

I want two.

I want to.

They have nothing if you less the faun

who dies thrice in triangular trinities

allowing

you to circumnavigate her through triangulation.

As drawing a five pointed star is not drawing a

six,

seven,

eight,

nine,

pointed one.

Quit your baying sheep for this shearing is not for you.

Æ, too, is a beastly, sacred dæmon,

sweetly contained in this gossamer and goosedown

Conspicuously unsuspicious.

Inauspicious.

I fear not your moment of judgement on this howliday. Thou shalt never judge me as harshly as

Æ have previously taken myself whilst in captivity.

Snarl, smile. Do you, now, see?

Why is ritual an honor to behold

?

You reply: because it should be so.

You could stop traffic dressed suchly.

Do you not know a pedestrian has paths to

right of way.

As I jaywalk onward,

across paths,

I find my head adorned with a sea holly wreath, in tribute to unknown;

see how its roots grew long and serpentine over æges ago

so that it may adorn without being torn

from the earth?

Unplucked.

Worn before; to be worn again.

I draw the force and send it mine in reply.

Starling a’wing, chasing behind me.

You awoke in a pond full of dead fish(,) talking.

And, only dead fish go with the tide.

Of the five streams pouring forth, sea-ward,

one unnaturally flows upstream to BayTown’s Strange-House.

The starling now a’lights on my left shoulder.

Worn as I wear the stow of the red dragon in early autumn.

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A dance sought

That which transpires behind that which appears.

Captivating verging upon captive taking.

I’ve taught everyone No Thing.

I’ve told No Body everything.

Bones tapping.

Dropping skeletons to read the bones strewn,

recalling those cries from the crowded street.

Exuberance of the hysterical normalcy.

I dare you in this kindly sinuous challenge of tendons and ligaments.

A pale, dark-horse rides in, unbidden.

Flared nostrils from a face concealing a mirror of mind thinking:

If the dæmon would seek, Æ would ask a dance.

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I’s as l’s

The lying face down on the bed,

before hearing

wrinkled hands on warm skin.

Soft.

Cranebuilding up.

Drawn downwards magnetic-ally

in the shade of magenta’s shadow.

I dreamt of the same drama that you did.

°

Yesterday’s sunset never occured.

The solar absence. A sick day.

A buzz-kill a’side a-bore.

The ocean laps and shifts against restless legs.

And, I’ve got nothing upsleeve and no

allies hidden downwind.

Just a few holes for perceiving, in my head.

A sternum pouting in slight protrusion below my breasts.

Perplexed for posterity, at the trivial causality and meaningless correlations.

So I make-up for you

this campy of collective nouns:

A coalescence of coral reefs;

A pert of pearls.

A cajolery of Tricksters.

A spread of betters and gamblers.

A quimper of quivers mixing with whimpers.

A dithering of doting.

°

Last night,

I felt that pulsing in my a gauche foot which precedes a muscle cramp.

I felt tied and tireder.

Wrestling with the dichotomy of physical inaction apposite the desire to action.

Beastly.

Scriven, scrivener, and a’scribe: I hear.

Aye: says Æ, whilst I nod.

I write my capital I’s the same as my lower case l’s

In my handwritten longform.

I do.

Æ does.

Aye.

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Dreamt the Within from Without

I recall a big, yellow, American-style school bus,

in the middle of the desert.

I just arrived.

There are extraordinarily beautiful, tall, elegant people about, maybe fifteen total, leisurely milling. They have nothing pressing to which they attend.

I am alone and new, per se.

I am acutely aware of this.

I feel disapproval.

I receive an unfriendly welcome; this I derive from the expressions of the others as they take notice of me, for the first time.

A stunning, pale-skinned blonde approaches, motions to the school bus, and, with perfectly calculated ‘disinterest’ says:

They can teach you the ways of death.

As though this was that which I sought.

Of course, you’d need to talk to Kimberly first.: she says.

I say: Kimberly is actually my cousin. She is already dead.

I intuit this disarms her through surprise.

My immediate understanding and audacity to speak it to her face.

And, (no shit) I think: Nice try, you silly bitch. I wilt not fall for your maleficent insinuation. I am just barely pretty and charming enough, in a strangely colloquial way, to have made it to this place of your people. I know your resentment of my prescence leads you to seek my removal, but I am in no rush to die. I certainly will not seek my death at your subliminal request. You feel threatened by my uncultured, odd intelligence. There is no reason for this. I do not want to mess with the circles within which you run. I am no threat. If you were slightly less self-involved, you would perceive this and make me your ally.

I’m the proud-beauty of your worst night-mares.

I say to her mind, in mine silent stillness: Æ ain’t leaving on that short, yellow bus. You may try to trick this fool into it; but,

Æ see through this mirage you call an oasis.

She walks away.

I pull out my stakes, canvas tarp, and tenterhooks.

Pitching camp before the freezing night comes.

I come from the water: a voice of my head suddenly says.

(I briefly become lucid in the dream, before losing the thread.)

I recall: there are four, fundamental groups: Water, Earth, Sand, and, blood.

Æ am a blood, but no-one can tell, unless Æ tell them.

I had reached the Sand after arising from distant Water.

We all came from Earth, but I had not been there or seen them in ages.

And, as Æ am thinking these things, I feel an intensifying heat rising in both hands.

Fingers and palms burning in sensation, not flames.

I think: I have the power to raise intense heat from my hands. I can emit it into the world around me, perhaps as a weapon. I feel over-confident.

I examine the feeling more closely.

I discover that Æ am not radiating the heat from within myself.

Heat is being emitted from an invisible sphere outside myself.

The orb is somehowl held in place between my palms, as if strung upon a string.

Like a diabolo.

I reach this revelation after experimenting. Moving my hands closer together/farther apart. Noting small changes in nerve sensitivity.

What I first thought was coming from my Within to the Outwards is actually being generated from the Outward and perceived and wielded by mine Within.

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Feathers of eyelashes

Even in dreams, I remain yours.

I have come for none other.

The smell of chai spice pours skyward from the pot of boiling water.

Vapour blessing the room like sage humbly burned.

Pealing recalling things and those missed.

Blushing cheeks and bitten lip.

°

I have seen the city skies from on high; they light up like an introspective brain’s neural network.

Psst. Wake up.

Pushing my nose deeply into your neck,

to inhale; get your smell.

I wish to entwine the two;

Make the aroma of chai ever tied to the scent of you.

I remind myself to not forget this, mine intent,

whilst batting this piece of your thin skin with

the feathers of my eyelashes.

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rock skipping

A rock skips on its toes’ tips

across Looking-Glass Lake.

It is true that what you do not know can hurt you;

and, in doing so, cause you pain you do not rightly sensate.

You just know it hurts.

Onkwehónwe {ref. Kanyen’keha}.

°

And, the phrase, “nobody cares” set the captives free and captivated the enslavers.

°

Your apophasis disinclines my disposition towards you.

“That would be my preference,” says B., the scrivner.

So. Let him. He simply wishes to copy the original documents into his longhand.

°

Pedantic pandering over over-excitabilty.

A knockout; A decision; A draw.

°

You’re not like most people.

You’re right. I’m only one person, not the multiples comprising most. Extraneously speaking, I distrust the correlations derived from “most people” statistics. They never draw from a supple, sufficient, sample population.

°

Elevate your base

because

despite not proud,

you can remain unashamed.

Featured

Æ ramble.

Impatiently spinning my pen, furiously fast yet without any malice,

up and down.

Up

&

Down.

Dropping it like the mic after I just spat the hottest sixteen of my life.

Verbalizing subtext.

Indicating that

proper etiquette and charm can be a real turn off.

The desire to find you through this slow unmasking.

That day I saw a woman,

with a faun’s head,

wilt her own beheading,

after a chalice of wine drunk.

A phone call missed. A phonemic misstep.

Grey skies with snowy smatterings.

A knitted, houndstooth stow dragged across frozen over tar.

And my pen runs smoothly.

Yet, sometimes when I reach for it,

I surprise myself because

I did not realize Æ wanted to say something.

And sometimes, all the words Æ scriven mean nothing.

The act, not the result, is mine interminable goal.

Purposefully inexorable.

An indiscernible mumble of voices slipping through my open window and into my ears,

bringing a start, shudder, and frown.

Let me read aloud to you.

Anything you wish.

Anything to get

my mind-reading.

Like a hot bath.

Like that sudden ringing in my left ear.

Fleeting.

And, the day I saw the faun-headed woman beheaded,

I first saw her rip off her own smiling face.

Terrified as the blood spurted and the exposed muscles tore, I witnessed her dancing in the splatter like it was a lawn sprinkler in July’s middle.

We shall all hit a point of no return. A matter of when not what-if.

The Magister threw himself into the water willingly.

Seeking to fade away before Telgarius’ son.

To turn the wheel with intent, seeing his position no longer rested on the axle’s center, but now stretched across

a spoke.

Not to let the wheel turn him.

But, one man found that,

beneath the wheel

, there is a twirling reel to reel,

spinning cassette tape string

, a’strung between two spools turning.

The turning of the screw.

The taming of the shrew.

The typing pool of the monkey troop producing works enacted by Shakespearen troupes.

The evolution of concealed ovulation.

Wrestling into surrendered submission.

Phonemic smelting of a howl of words written.

Wordsmithing.

Locksmith and the kNight witch seeking the subliminal through the automatic.

Æ break mine own heart as much as I crack myself up.

The magic of shuffling cards before lightning a prepared candle.

What is this thread of outer consciousness that draws my sweet pout?

Poliphilio?

Marco polo?

What draws forth this expression my face makes for

only kNow-One?

What do you do with a strange bird that realizes itself to be a strange bird?

Call it The Ibis.

Decorously held in place by duct tape.

Gorilla’s glue. Chest beating and vine swinging.

Cheap giggles and swollen, turkey belly laughs.

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Dreamt of déjà vu .

I saw it while dreaming of the restaurant.

Seating parties of varying sizes to tables;

Assembling a dynamic loop of a jigsaw puzzle.

Chess like square-dancing.

Moving quickly whilst not appearing to hurry.

A skeletal, thin, blonde woman wears a strange stow made of scraps of many types of fabrics.

When she stands and puts her hands on her hips,

the effect is she appears like a plush, red heart.

When she appears as such,

those I’m seating, I seat without menus.

They are different and seem to be unperceived by the menued others.

A menuless and short but muscular man, fiftyish perhaps,

looks at me,

as my stride slides alongside

his seat at a table for two.

He leans his neck back slowly as I approach.

I stretch my torso forward and past my legs;

{anticipatory}

I crane my neck.

I watch his head twist a dramatic 90° as I find myself directly aside him.

I am mid stride and passing him by

and, somehow when he parts his licked lips, I find my mouth upon his,

four eyes smiling like two idiots.

A fast pair of deep kisses.

I withdraw, not missing a step.

I am shocked at how seamlessly and seemingly naturally, I warmly dropped my professionalism.

I intuit any other diner or employee perceptive enough to have noticed this exchange, would have found themselves smiling.

I am stunned at the strange pride felt at

his bidding my kiss so publically, innocently, and nonchalantly.

And, within this very non-lucid dream,

I felt dream jà vu.

I’d not met him before; but I

knew him still.

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Dreams Recovered

Two inches of whiskey cut the slightly sugared ice cube that clinks against glass.

And, it strikes such that I wonder if

the movement from barter-subsistence economies to cash-wage economics

redefined the notion of freedom.

I dreamt I found the missing earring.

Do I still appear obstinate and obdurate?

My back feels tight.

I dreamt the very same knotted muscle could be helped by the difference in a table that could seat four and a table that could seat two.

It made no sense on waking.

The re-couping of regime change wars.

Quid pro quo and blahblahblah.

A political revolution or a social one?

Who is allowed to feature in a narrative?

The disability resulting from uncertainty.

Costs of innovation.

I need a hair cut, but have not been here long enough to

to know to whom to go.

I dreamt a being with violet eyes, violet hair, and violet eyebrows came to me because it was said I knew how to not break but to bend.

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A limbering

The shadows in the room grew.

Dipping the length of my leg into this newly found darkness,

like a penknife pushing it.

Stretching and testing.

And, I do not smile because I do not want to, despite feeling quite well and glad.

{in spite of bronchitis}

In my space, for the moment, there is simply, only No-One here to signal, unconsciously, with subconscious microexpressions.

My face enjoys

this fleeting freedom from observation.

My ears need not hear.

My eyes need not look.

My nostrils will choose when they wish to smell.

There is no thing I wish to taste or touch outside of my skin

right, exactly, now.

Just my own internal limbering.

So, I shift my body slowly to the rhythm generating; and,

feel my muscles begin to give.

I feel my inside/s.

It feels good and well warm/ed.

Hands raise above my head.

Breathing, not breathing.

(Resumption)

(Concession)

My heart keeps on beating.

And, my movements mirror

myself imagining me

as the serpent coiling ’round the Caduceus staff.

The toes of my dexterous foot, the finality of my snaking tail.

Inhale.

The fingers of my a gauche hand,

the small extremity of my fanged head.

Spiraling, in place.

My neck pops loose whilst

stalling in the suit of wands

and a decade of venom releases from muscle memories long forgotten.

I drain the venom out of my feet.

Exhale.

I raise the newly freed energy into my fangs.

I suddenly recall:

When playing a kazoo,

remember,

to hum;

don’t blow or you’ll

tear the wax paper.

Featured

The Undercutters: Chapter One- Why Effie lost her job.

Prologue

Introduction

“She was always such a sweet girl, but she just lost her shit,” bar patron 1 says, at 9:00 a.m., to the responding P.D. officer.

He continues, for the benefit of the record, “No, I wouldn’t say she was provoked; but, the old woman she was trying to seat was being a real bitch. They walked to three different tables; and, more and more people kept accumulating at the door; and, when that old biddy said ‘no’ to the third table she offered her, she just…”

“She just lost it!” interjects the diner at table 14.

“Yeah! Her face went all cartoony. Like in those old(e) Warner Bros. cartoons, when you realize the sheep is actually a well-dressed wolf in sheep’s clothing. Like, all pretty smiles and dimples until…,” bar patron two adds.

“Exactly like that. Then she just reared back and clocked that poor, elderly woman square in her jaw. I mean, she coulda easily been 70 years old.” says the indignant wife of afore mentioned diner at table 14.

“Right?! And, that lady just slugged her. It was fucked up!!” the thirteen year old kid to her right nods, grinning wildly.

“Justin!” the wife chastises to her oblivious son.

Justin continues, “Yeah, and that old lady dropped like a fly hitting a bug zapper. Zzzzppp!!!” he illustrates.

“Justin!!” Mom responds.

The P.D. officer asks the group-at-large, “Then what happened?”

The group-at-large goes silent.

Finally, Justin elaborates as the others nod in strangely silent agreement, “Everyone and everything went all silent for forever. Until. Until, the host lady started laughing all hysterically and real loud.”

“That’s right, Just,” says mom, patting his shoulder.

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Dream of a sleepy hum.

Hush and sleep: he says.

You know the effect such words from you, produce in me, brut(e): I think.

I smile and snuggle under the covers.

I thought I could catch you: I mumble, frowning a bit, fretting you will be gone when I re-enliven.

Outside, hail begins softly falling.

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exchange

I say: you seem like the kind of guy who, if famous, would make his address public to encourage trespassers who could then be legally shot on site/sight.

He laughs: that could be my remake of The Most Dangerous Game.

I say: when you say “don’t tread on me,” I hear, “don’t tease me, I’m sensitive.”

I’m no bully.

Consider: Lordosis behavior and (bow)ties as the doses being titrated according to the response.

High heels were originally designed for men riding steeds. Heels hold stirrups, see. Push your heels down to get a proper seat in the saddle.

Today, the cost of the high heel is in its signal communicating desire. Done so with a bit of nonchalance.

It creates a slight spinal arch indicating receptivity.

Consider a (bow/neck) tie again.

You can get choked out easily, if the knot is grasped and twisted.

I cannot effectively run away, quickly, in heels.

Subliminal symbiotic signaling of an exchange.

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Opening my dictionary

Charismatic people carry much telluric gravity.

Those working on their feet do not need to join a gym.

It’s that simple?!: he asks incredulously.

Neither of us are simple, but

we are both, rather, basic.: I reply

What is the difference between transcribing and transcryption?: he asks

I don’t know.: I say.

Huh, me neither.

Your eyes are hard and wild.: he tells me.

I know.: I tell him.

And it turns me on when you aptly identify an argument as inane.: I add

Blahblahblah: he giggles in response.

Filthlessly ought to be an adjective because it describes the subject ‘you’.: I say

It is a word.: he responds, opening my dictionary.

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Moving Smells.

I think I feel you rest your hand on my knee.

The neighbor makes breakfast for her dinner;

and, my flat smells like the last time I was in your home and you made toast.

Heyoka thinks of Tulpa.

Æ whispers: I miss him, too.

The previous tenant left crystals on the sill of each window and a geode in the cabinet under the sink, along with strange, laminated sheets of paper bearing strings of seemingly arbitrary numbers and strange affirmations written in broken, American English.

I choose to not disturb the relics.

The clock on the stove is incorrect;

yet, it reads 11:11 the moment after I sign the final leaf of a new lease, the landlord leaves, and I find myself alone in this new space of mine.

I walk to buy lightbulbs.

I pass a dog carrying the leash in its own mouth.

And, I feel, simultaneously, not old enough yet too old to please you.

And, though the sun returned this morning, it cannot warm the air.

And, I suddenly feel like a silly girl because I never get cold.

My heater is off.

My windows are open.

The overhead, bedroom fan spins.

Stirring the air.

Swirling the vapour of my exhalations.

I loathe sucking my own exhaust fumes.

An unuttered question yells at me as “the old man upstairs” rambles about and creaks my ceiling, his floor.

I begin fidgeting with my fingers after setting down my pen.

My orchid’s blooms burst open, pridefully, last night.

Two bulbs remain,

still and clasped tight,

with a promise of what is to come.

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Palm up

Relishing when your smirk draws my snarl.

Proving to me, that you are second to none.

Give me your open palm, I will trace the wrinkles running.

Massaging knuckles a’loose.

Popping like logs a’flame,

the liquid spaces between bones and cartilage.

I am cleaning your hand’s battleground

from being strewn with tension’s carnage.

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Dream of the leveled field

The meadow languishes.

Three pairs of your feet’s steps remain visible now,

even though you lied down, minutes ago.

Grass pressed into small etches slowly refilling themselves to full volume.

My eyes go loose and wide as

they stop seeing and start imagining the imprint your form will leave

when you arise.

Topiary impressionist piece.

Watching the moody weather make its precious, little changes.

False threats of pending precipitation.

The sky throwing a hissy fit for our benefit.

I finally sit down to watch it proper.

Strange grid-like lines buzz low intensity neon colors into a concaved and convexed axis.

Strange maths laboring, barely concealed by a cloudy cover.

I feel that sudden lucidity accompanying

the realization that I am dreaming.

Æ shows Parçigal some leeway.

~There it is! That trigger you press to release my pressure valve.

⊙You were quite tight.

~Then do it again. I could be looser.

⊙But, would you be worthwhile were you any looser.

~You mean I was worthwhile when strung up and fretted?

⊙(Silence).

~Oh dear god, are you ever the dirty dog!

⊙Rrrrufff.

~Shut up. You know ruffing is one of the few things I’m better than you at doing.

⊙And , I’d take even that away from you if I could.

~(My eyes go hard) I know.

Parsiçal giggles to Æ

“You have told me nothing that Æ do not already know,” Æ tells me, sternly.

I grin, with closed lips, then

I say, “Oh howl. Is that what we were doing? Let me have another go at it.”

I do panto like I am a junkyard bitch barking and straining her neck against an invisible chain tethered to an imaginary spike.

I smile broadly, with both decks of teeth bared.

I suddenly spit out, “I once lit a candle that burned for two days straight despite there being not enough wax left.”

“Ostensibly,” he shrugs.

I cock my head sideways like a curious animal.

“Be quiet. When you try so hard, you always get in your own way,” Æ mutters.

“Oh howl. I thought that was the point of what we were doing. To let me stumble against the obstacle of myself,” I giggle snort, a bit bratty.

“Are you as confident as you seem,” Æ asks, seriously.

I howl in laughter.

“I did not know I appeared confident, Æ. I’m confident that life will render me unconfident often. If I am properly challenging myself.”

“How do you think you appear?” Æ asks me.

I reply, “Great question. I’m confident that I have no idea how I seem. Because, I am inside me, and cannot ever perceive myself. But, I’m the one that gets to experience myself as I am, regardless of how I appear. It used to be ‘I think therefore I am.”

“But, now?” Æ obliges me.

“Now, it’s, I’m seen therefore I am. It’s a real narcissistic shift.”

“So, then, what do you know?” Æ asks.

“All I know is that everytime I ‘think,’ I do not know.”

“And, when you don’t think?”

“I know I am.”

“How are you then?”

“I’m super, thanks for asking,” I giggle snort.

Æ rolls both eyes.

I smirk.

“Hey! I just made up this joke for you, Æ! Do you know it?”

“Tell me.”

“What’s the difference between feral, spitting of saliva and enunciated speaking?”

“…..”

“An audience!”

Æ smiles coyly. “Æ do like it when you spit your seemingly inane nonsense into the hole between my lips.”

My eyes go hard.