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Parçigal from between time or Circumstance

Background notes:

Parzifal is the “collective tradition of mankind…is not subject to Time or Circumstance.”

Is for those born of the ‘Heart’s Affliction.’

Researching Parzifal led me to the works of C.S. Jones who wrote The Chalice of Ecstasy “to make the points dealt with [in the drama] as comprehensive as possible to the uninitiated enquirer who is prepared to ‘wake and harken the call.’ “

The writing below is an exercise in synthesis.
All quoted text is pulled from The Chalice of Ecstasy.
All quoted text within quotation marks are quotes Jones included in his work.
He also used WOLFRAM VON ESCHENBACH’s text Parzival as his basis. He does recommend a good translation of the Libretto from R. Wagner’s Parsifal.

Parzival is “written in the keynote of ecstasy” according to Wolfram von Eschenbach and “provides a glimpse of the Eternal Reality.” A key event in the story is Parzival shooting a swan from the sky. The swan represents ecstasy. Parzival should have been condemned for this but is not because of the unique confluence of his circumstances. I like to use the allegory of Parzival which is considered a “living text” as a means of discussing sexuality and gender roles/definition. I also like the idea of the newest incarnation of Parzival being from the perspective of a feminine knight questing for love and understanding with the former.

¤

My ecstasy has indicated I was “born of the ‘Heart’s Affliction.’ “

I found my “way to that spot where they, ‘scarcely move, yet seem to run’ “.

“Having become one with The Way,” I have just come to Tao.

I “discover that the shifting scenes of the world [I] had though so real, will pass [me] by as a pageant until the Vision of the Grail itself is presented to their pure Understanding.” But howl surprised was I to see both you and I.

I fear I believe that all that is written above has occured to me again and again.

I simply continue for long enough to forget and remember it all over again.

A chALice emptied and refilled.

My heart “learned to beat in time and tune with the Soul of the World.”

Rhythm and vibrations are everything we think we know. What is rhythm but

a wave? A wavelength. An S rotated 90% and crossing an axis. Periodicity of the pendulous arm’s swings.

Rhythm is the steady crashing of waves falling.

The entire ocean is every wave.

¤

I feel my being “to be a highly strung musical instrument.”

Fret awaiting fretting. Tuned to the proper tone to be strummed and plucked upon.

A fitt “burn[s] up the veils which hide [me] from Myself.”

It reveals you. A familiar stranger.

Strum me.

“Will runs over [my] strings” and I come to know how to reveal how it is “causing complete and harmonious vibrations.” Do you choose to experience this in your own being? Show me the “unformulated but delightful melody” that is the same song Whitman sang.

The Song of Myself.

I will dance to your song simply because you choose to perform it for me.

I will conduct your currents as you emit them.

I will empty you to refill you.

I am an empty plenum. I contain everything in my nothingness.

I know not the rituals. Yet still I seek to continually “unite the mind to some pure idea by an act of will.” This is the brick wall against which I slam my head “again and again.” The wall where you found me bleeding and dizzy, next to the eggshell pieces of Humpty Dumpty. Alice remembers her name again.

I know not the “Way of Holiness.” I may not impress upon the consciousness of your onlookers.

No-One is the only one that looks upon me thusly.

I am a pure Fool, ignorant and earnest. Before that I was a dummy. I could not speak. I have always been an idiotē.

I have always been the unaffiliated Maverick roaming through the initiated herds, admiring the brands, the symbols emblazoned upon their skin.

My skin is marred by time and circumstance.

My skin is completely unmarked.

Canvas.

¤

“ “There is a Swan whose name is Ecstasy.” “

Also known as you and I.

I “ “wingeth through the blue” and at “[my] coming they push forth the green” “ because I bring spring.

I herald an easter Sunday for your tired soul.

You shot me down from the sky.

And, you did it by virtue of No-One’s weapon but your own.

A Happy Death for me. A Swan’s life born anew in you.

“ “In all the Universe [a] Swan alone in motionlessness, it seems to move as the Sun seems to move; such is the weakness of sight.” “

“ “O fool!”…”Motion is relative; there is nothing that is still.” “ Let me shoot my arrow at you this time. From your “ “ [feathered] breast poured forth blood” “ and I felt ecstatic and you discovered ichor. Now, let me ecstatically enrapture you until your veins flow with it so richly as to sustain this demiurge. You are no longer a Pure Fool because you know. The men that smote you last time will not let you pass again. But, I can sneak you through the gate. Folly is my protector. Let me use it for the protection of the soul of another.

I am ignorant of the rule and the action taken breaking the rule was kindly intended.

(says the little boy who cried ‘Wolf’)

(says the collective mind who was “just taking orders”)

Consequences occur regardless of intention.

Risk is underwritten.

In tension, intension.

Suspension of beginning an action and witnessing the resultant reaction and effects of your affect.

I have been called Artemis, Sagittarius (until the stars changed), centaur and satyr.

I read of the marriage of Christian Rosencrutz. Send them my congratulations and best wishes, please.

Where is the Castle and what of the Tower?

“ “By my word, I know you are Parzival-son of Herat’s Affliction” “-and I have recovered the weapon that you flung off after using it to pluck me down from the sky and into the blue lake.

I have discovered-upon that Might of Love which you used to render me slain. You “succeeded where all others had failed,” dear one.

You say you do “now as yet know [t]he True Name-the Word of [Ewer]-Being, though in the past [you had] been called by many names.”

You mention this: “one thing [you] desired to know and to understand. What is the Grail!”

You have already been told that “ “By no one can it be detected Who by itself is not elected.” “

And, you then did “ “Bestride the Bird of Life [because] thou wouldst know.” “

I desire to know if you came to me by slaying me because you wanted to know or because you wanted to know me. And to what end did you intend this knowledge?

The difference between a means to a desired end and being the end desired.

Dis-ingenuity. Do not be disingenuous, sorrel.

It will make it so much worse for you. Through it you turn three pounds of pleasure into three pounds of misery. Should misery please you, you will never be miserable again, if you act duplicitously or maliciously.

A knight need only be kind. Do not attempt to placate with being nice. Kindness does not impress. It empresses upon. Kindness is a way of being and not an act of valour to be selectively undertaken. Kindness can appear cruel to outsiders.

So, I also ask: are you kind?

I desire to know how you found yourself at the intersection of right now. Face to face with me.

This is the cost of admission. Tell me these things and I shall sneak you through the gate.

I just hope you are as brave as you believe yourself to be. Sometimes it will get dark. You have coronated me a Queen of Magnets. I attract all poles.

Howl I hope it is not just a ceremonial sobriquet, sweet fool.

“We are the ELLIPSE OF THE UNIVERSE.”

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Tangled feedback loops of the complex systems.

Write something on addicted: he writes.

Rates of consumption.

Knee jerk response to what we have known for ages.

Paracelsus.

sola dosis facit venenum.

I drink a case of you and find myself barely on my feet.

But, still

I am on my feet.

A pH balance. All of us. Welcome to yourself and kindly

say hello.

A near death experience is well documented as being præter-natural.

There is no reason to fear.

Change.

Chemical composition.

There are people addicted:

to remaining married.

to eating sugar.

to hearing the sound of their own name.

to gossiping.

to risking their joys due to lack of control.

to fitting in.

to not making waves.

to positive feedback.

to attention.

There are people addicted to the subtle repression

of the ones they love the most.

There are those addicted to never abiding in the

heart of one for too long.

There are those addicted to the vanity of not

being vain.

A rabbit hole of exploration.

What is your resultant self harm to harm of others ratio?

But, harm is harm.

And harm is subjective.

Sometimes enjoyable to the harmed.

Tangled feedback loops of complex systems.

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to Port Townsend

They make parking garages into boats.

The cars below do not feel the apparent-wind like us walk-ons do.

A pair passes by me. I hear: “How did those stickers get put on there?”

Orcas, while rarely seen, do swim here in the Sound.

A family passes by me.

“How did those stickers get put on there?” I hear again.

{~}

On the bench to my right, a fellow in a cowboy hat is photographed by a slight and pixie-like gal.

She has a camera. A proper, right aperature. She does not repurpose her cell phone for the task. Perhaps it speaks to the value she places upon her subject and the tools required to properly achieve her artistic desired ends.

On the other side of the water is a Townsend of a port. It is filled with salty sea dogs of the best kind. One of the last bastions in the world of expertise and experience re: wooden sailboats.

It was built in a decidedly Victorian style during the late 1800’s. Elaborate stone buildings that would seem more at home in the UK.

It maintains four independent bookstores, all on the main [sic. high] street.

Always a positive sign. Yet, one that I seldom see.

The song of a pied piper.

The voice of reluctant troubadour.

An outburst from a seagull sounded like a car alarm.

Investments were made here with the intent to create a massive, international shipping port. This place was supposed to be what Seattle became, but the railroads did not lay track here as anticipated. They routed through Seattle.

A hazy cover of clouds lingers. There are immense mountains so close by, yet abiding unseen.

I pass two places that I recall having seen in dreams. Deja v/u/iew.

And, it smells like the Gulf of Mexico does. Destin, AL, just next to the Florida’s panhandle.

Salt. Seaweed. It reeks of things always being wet and never drying out.

It is a town of artisans, artifacts, and craftsmen. As it was explained to me: It is a sailor’s paradise because there are only 24 days of “good” sailing weather here.

I consider that type of sailor. Yup, they are the same sea dogs that still build their vessel from wood and not fiberglass.

There are rigger shops every other block. Schooners, sloops, cutters, ketches: the number of sails and the number of masts varies, but they all require a great deal of properly positioned and tightened rope. It becomes a specialty, like navigational skill.

It sings of waves falling down. It hints at waters ceaselessly lapping rocky shores like relentless thoughts and worries carving canyons in the contents of your confidence.

Seagull shit stained rocks and buildings made of stone. Barnacle blooms come into view on the hulls and the buoys during this time of low tide.

I feel the demands of a restless mind clicking out thought and notion like an antique stock ticker. I cipher telegrams regarding the health of your economy.

Waveform and flows rising and ebbing. Coming like crimson tides in the waters of words flooding my mind’s. Aye.

A hum escapes and vibrates from my throat. A quirk. A noise I make unconsciously when roaming in my mind.

Have you ever surprised yourself by hearing your own voice?

I speak mostly through unspoken scrawls. My loudest voice comes from silence when speech is expected. Fishermen hooking attention.

The vocal manifestation of the underlying punctuation is realized through the intervals.

Rests between notes.

How many beats per minute in the measures of the sentences comprising your composition? Moving as do canvas and a pallete knife conjure acrylics into patterns.

All boats must be houseboats when afloat. They are the sustainable sanctums stopping you from dropping into the briney depths.

While it may keep you from taking the plunge immediately, it does grant you access to the deeper and deeper waters, where both stillness and churning are ever present.

Path-carving the sloshing surface.

There are seagulls cackling out “ha-ha-ha” from all around. It sounds much like the blahyadablah of the “hi. how are ya’s,” or like all adults to Charlie Brown.

There are no speed boats here.

No yachts.

Fast and flashy find no quarter.

How am I?

The shopkeep asks.

Good question.

I know that I am, but how it is that I am, I do not know.

Do you know how you are?

I make. I do, that much I also know to be true.

I smile and say “Oh you know, I’m covering the spread.”

I stop by the independent record shop.

They sell vinyl with a smattering of cassette tapes and other obsolete formats.

They do not sell CD’s. Great curation.

I got the cassettes below for four dollars U.S.

After asking the owner what the price is, I am informed the MD is a mix made years ago by an employee, to be played in the shop. It was given to me for free. The shopkeeper was highly amused at my interest in it.

I mention that seeing three albums by Mott the Hoople made my day.

The shop owner says: started my day with them.

He reaches under the counter and produces the album sleeve for The Hoople.

A sea of faces in hair.

Evidenced.

A child eyeballs me on the ferry ride home. Sliding closer and closer to me.

I say: I’m Casey.

S/he says: I didn’t ask you.

I say: I just thought I’d tell you.

Macy then tells me many things very quickly.

S/he worries deeply about the dangers of sharks when s/he takes the ferry, for instance.

S/he stops speaking briefly and stares at me and says: I think my eyelashes are like yours. We have the same eyelashes.

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Watch “Brittany Howard – He Loves Me (Official Live Session)” on YouTube

No rights: homage and mega ups to Brittany Howard of Alabama Shakes fame.

I saw them open for Crazy Horse in Tuscaloosa, AL.

There was a small wooden desk to stage right.

An awesome artist out of my home state.

Hometown heroes, huh?

Here are her thoughts on the South and music.
Deontay Wilder, falls into this category, too.

[sic. Wilhagan’s Irish Pub daze.]

(But, that’s another story.)

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As good as a cuppa

I had slipped into sleep and fell deeply.

Ten hours later.

I microwave a cup of coffee from an old pot.

Function over taste.

Immediacy and no waste.

I snatch the cup by its handle, immediately after the ding.

Heat radiates into the nerve endings of my fingers and palm.

Too quickly. Hot sensation becomes burning.

I hold the cup midair, as the realization is apprehended.

I will my hand to stay clasped about the handle.

I lower the mug to the counter.

No spill. Nothing dropped. No broken glass.

It takes two seconds but the difference seemed an odyssey.

Time slowed as I accomadated° a mini-crisis.

°Courted a-coma-date.

A Comma.

I pay attention to your punctuation.

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68 Coffeecake/86 Crab. tuesday

If you comment: it’s not exactly rocket science, you sound like you think you are a rocket scientist.

The silver couple arrives. She forgets my name but gives me a new one each day. Curly Sue. Dimples.

Today, I am Goldilocks.

She asks the bartender my name when she thinks I cannot hear. She suggests I read the poem Casey at the Bat. Hum, huh.

The village beach preservation busy body society has two tables held for them. One for the men and one for the women. Twelve seats total. Only three women come. They talk the politics of healthcare and about the addicts in their lives.

Our speakers play almost decent, easy listening blues. If you can imagine such a thing. Almost-Stevie Ray Vaughan comes on.

Nearly-Suite: Judy Blue Eyes plays.

We are slow enough that I actually noticemusic is playing.

And, time moves slowly now.

The reservation for six at noon became 4 at fifteen ’til

.All named Pat.

“You are pulling my leg, right?”

“No! It’s Pat’s Day. Okay, now I am kidding you about that. We are all named Pat.”

He and the other Pat (only two have arrived) laugh uproariously.

Mike comes by to make a reservation.

He shows me his Book of Answers.

“My wife found this in 2000. Ask a question and flip to any page.”

He carries a green street sign in a plastic sleeve under his left arm, hugged against his ribs.

He adds:”You don’t have to tell me the question.”

I silently ask the question on my mind.

Tolle Lege.

The page I flip to, it reads:

it is not guaranteed.

That figures: I think.

The thing about which I framed my inquiry is not guaranteable.

He and Tony will return for lunch tomorrow.

A regular left me this.

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Cartesian-ism

I’ll see it when I believe it : I think therefore I am.

I’ll believe when I see it : I’m seen therefore I am.

_____________________________________________

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” say the lesser apes.

“You’ll see it when you believe it,” you said.

Cogito, ergo sum.

What René Descartes is remembered as saying.

Je pense, donc je suis.

How Descartes first wrote it.

I think therefore I am.

(tautological?)

“Whatever I have up until now accepted as most true I have acquired either from the senses or through the senses.” (7:18 Principles)

But Descartes feared a deceptive God or an evil eternal deceiver.

Could he trust the apprehensions of his physical senses?

He could not disprove that his sensations were not the result of deception; so he dove into doubt. How is sensation different from perception?

“We have a true or genuine perception of something if, when we consider it, we cannot doubt it…In the face of genuine clear and distinct perception, our affirmation of it is so firm that it cannot be shaken, even by a concerted effort to call those observed things into doubt. (7:145 Meditations)

Descartes tried to free us from “I’ll believe it when I see it.” He tried to disavow the authority and immediacy of knowing the world through sense and sensations. He did not believe that his five senses could apprehend truth in a way that overcame his doubt.

He found doubt and did not believe.

His belief was not dependent on sensual stimulation.

I’ll see it when I believe it.

I think therefore I am.

Perceptions that I cannot find a scrap of a reason to doubt, may be genuine.

So, we doubt the hell out of everything; and, if we exhaust every doubt of which we may conceive, we firm up our grasp of reality. Through dint of doubt, all doubt is removed. This is intellect.

“I think.” He couldn’t find a doubt about it, so he allowed his capacity for thought and doubt to validate his existence- that he “is.”

His sensations could be virtual reality, so he doubted what he saw.

When he had no doubt that he “thought”, he then believed he truly “was.”

—————————————————-

Empiricism resists and refuses the subjective realm, and is founded on a principle of obtaining information via senses and standardized measurements.

Science, empiricism, and Western culture say, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

I got a (dumb) cell phone in 2002.

My family got dial up internet in our home around 1998.

Before the mid-1990’s, we could not be in two places at once (physical, say, a restaurant, and cyberspace).

The advent of Facebook, Instagram, selfies, social media and internet culture creates a condition for, “I’m seen therefore I am.” I validate myself and reality by reproducing images of myself digitally which I post to get views online. I act the role of myself in a construction that I calculate. I show what I want when I want to in the hopes others will come to know me as I have shown myself to be.

My sister’s generation operates on “I’m seen therefore I am.”

Little digitally savvy savages.

Groups eating together and everyone has a screen. Silicon is always in hand. Take it away and they sweat.

The viewpoint of this age group: I am capable of being observed by others, this validates that I “am.”

The desire to be seen, get friended, followed, liked, hits is the want of confirming and calculable feedback that digital you has been observed and accepted by others. The cyber persona may be chosen moment to moment, so to speak. Day to day personas are less so chosen.

They’ll believe it when they see it.

Yeah, we’ll cure cancer,

And pigs can fly,

God exists,

Well, that is, I’ll believe it when I see it’s already been done.

The more individuals who say likewise, then the less individuals we have working to solve these problems. Presumably, the people waiting to see it will not be trying to manifest it. Why would they?

To them it is impossible until somebody else says, “I’m going to believe it is a possibility to cure cancer, and then I will find out if I can realize that possibility, perceive it.”

There is a lovely lack of cynicism in “I’ll see when I believe it.” There is a proper dash of humility regarding our own self-awareness.

————————————————————–

“I’ll believe when I see.”

This, however, indicates an inherent incredulity and it absolves the self of accountability.

That which cannot be seen or sensed stands on unbelievable ground.

“I’m seen therefore I am.” I see myself and receive systematic, calculable feedback that others have seen me. This validates that I am. I can show it you, point at it.

Alternatively, “I think so I am” puts the onus of doubt back on any given individual. She talks of what can or cannot be seen/perceived at this time. She does not have to state a belief position. This frees the mind in the sense that here belief follows one’s own perceptions, and, perceptions may be addressed through the process of doubt. I do not choose my beliefs as much as I become aware of them. I do not choose to believe based on what I have or have not perceived.

My beliefs are revealed to me by the things I perceive and then I am unable to doubt them. What I see allows me to come to know my beliefs and tweak them. My belief in the possibility of things does not necessitate their appearance.

I’ll see less things on earth than things I will see in this lifetime. Shall I really constrain myself to such a small set of experiential data?

I’ll see it when I believe it : I think therefore I am.

I’ll believe when I see it : I’m seen therefore I am.

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Monday’s Hostess

It is nearly sunny over Puget sound by eight a.m.

My feet pound pavement. Walking to work.

A simple luxury of the highest order.

A man hugs three people outside the osteria,

one at a time,

ring around the roses style.

Lighting a cigar, he and his bulldog walk away and across the street to

my side of the road.

They precede me by about six feet as we walk.

I inhale deeply the spirals of smoke that follow him.

I feel less sheepish about the plumes of vapor I emit.

He stops to let me pass.

“Don’t want you breathing my fumes.”

“I was enjoying it.”

I was enjoying it, too.

“Showbiz Kids” comes through my cans.

Steely Dan’s Countdown to Ecstasy.

Five minutes later, I arrive at the cozy, little bistro located on Main Street. Two blocks from the water. I see the beach town’s Monday morning is already in full swing. Live and bumping with mostly silverhairs, at this hour.

The exception being a thirty-something couple that I wager is still out from last night.

They drink a lot of water.

(No one likes ice in their water here.)

I hum my hellos to the front of house crew.

I get mumbles back. It is early.

I announce my hellos to the back of house who are singing a song in Spanish that I have never heard. They wave enthusiastically. They have been here three hours longer than front of house.

Their coffee already kicked in.

11:05 a.m.

and, the sun finally asserts itself, breaking free from behind clouds.

This thrills and disappoints.

I am already sweating. The A/C unit has not worked since I started.

I am used to the heat from my former life.

I hear garbled voices rise:

“[Something, something, something] Moroccan immigrants!”

Followed by:

“[Something, something, something] So what?! People look at you funny? Big deal.”

I doubt he knows what that feels like, but

what do I know?

As he leaves, I smile and offer the obligatory: “Thanks for coming in. Have a good day.”
He halts.

“No!” he says, then approaches me.

Stepping in close.

“I had a friend and when people told him to have a good day, he’d say, “Don’t you ever tell me what to do.” “

I laugh and I mean it.

“Well, in that case, I sure hope you have an awful day,” I say with nonchalance.

He looks confused then smiles.

“This one, huh?” he says to no-one, indicating me with a finger.

“Didn’t you learn pointing at people is impolite?”

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Motor Mouth

To break the invisible nothingness. To turn your glass house into a looking-glass house where people gather all alone to lookout on their own outlooks. Turning out, sucking bellies in. Broadcasting.

Transcript of the transcryption was the cipher of your steganography.

The forest beside my house is stunning. An impromptu ambient music piece was performed when I left for my walk the other day. The turning on and off of machinery. Bird calls and tapping hammers. Then again, maybe it was all in my head.

‘He said “It’s all in your head”

And I said “So’s everything”

But he didn’t get it’.

Except, I am all in. I don’t fold but I bend and stretch.

Love defies cost.

°

Ruthless introspection. A hesitancy towards interrupting. An assumption that “if I’m being honest” is a redundant statement. A rather primal love of testing the limits of my understanding.

A people pleasing nature that struggles. A devil’s advocate that cannot resist running her mouth and asking follow up questions. The kids call it getting to the next screen, I believe.

°

Presentiment masquerading. Uninvolved observers evaluating.

That is why fools try too hard. Is caring creepy?

Giggle. I can be!

The world is just too surprising. We are born wild and subjected to domestication wherein we learn to be mindful of the opinions others have and present of us to ourselves. Where we learn to fit the molds others would like to see us fill. We learn to enjoy expressing and developing opinions on any number of things. I can run my mouth off better than many and cannot always back everything up. Dummy up is my M.O.

The best thing about getting a LP/EP in a physical format, no mp3 or livestream, is that it is very hard to take care of.

Prepositional ending intended.

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“Are You Happy Being A Schmuck? Lou Reed, Sydney 1975”

No rights: homage.

I am a part-time many things, but a full-time rock n’ roll animal.

While I am on record as not enjoying hearing musicians talk about their music, there are several notable exceptions that make the rule.

Neil Young, Johnny Lydon, Michael Stipe, Joni Mitchell, David Bowie.

But, my absolute favorite musician interviewee is Lou Reed.

This captures some of his essence.

This captures all the bizarreness of journalism and media.

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A Bath for archimedes

Ardor is ard(ours).

Come, I shall draw a bath for you.

Two glasses of Malbec.

Close your eyes and speak the words you hear.

I wish to take diction.

Victorian modernity mentality bound, hound.

Smile creeping in small doses.

Your eyes become 30 years younger.

You speak words softly.

Steadily.

Slowly

But, only at first.

My pen’s scratch against the paper changes. Surface tension of woven papyrus shifting with

Variations in the

coarseness of the grain.

The way my scrawls sound is how you felt when you wore your wool sweater against your bare skin.

White sox lay discarded in the corner.

Shea and lavender scents.

My body quickens at the gravity you begin using, speaking ecstatic poetry.

Body rush. Pert and tightening

to hear you speak in wild abandon, surrendering.

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Clutter

She was clumsy.

She forgot other people could not

tell right away.

And, so, she had raced in and embarrassed herself with a bit too much gusto.

Or, so she assumed.

She wanted him to take her dancing where real players made analogue music in a room where people were still allowed to smoke. It would be loud. It would be crowded. And, their lungs would hurt the next day.

“Sing into my mouth.”

That’s what she didn’t say. But, she thought it.

“Did you really just ask that of me?” asks the voice of consternation. Her version of Jimney Crickett.

“How would you know ferocious?”

“Perhaps you have not prompted the ferocity in my nature.”

“Hum. It is there. Abiding patiently with a kind smile. To imagine requires a capacity for imagination.”

“Provocateur.”

“Hago lo que puedo.”

“You can’t always say what you mean!”

Matter is the matières of the matieres.

The contents of the materials.

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The handmade amatory ambit.

The amatory ambit which I occupy indicates, to the ears of my heart, that

I am the succulent strumpet sometimes called succubus; and it is I to whom you succum/b. My scribbl/es are ascribed to Scribes, all of whom scrieve, for example, scriveners, a penman, and amanuensis.

~\~~\\~\\\\

Just scratching lead to papyrus.



Ambit: (n) that which bounds; a boundary; also the sphere or scope; circumference.

Amatory: designed to excite love, sexual love specifically .

Succulent: the quality of being juicy and fleshy.!

Strumpet: a prostitute.

Succum: as under a burden, yield; to die.

Succumb: to sink down.

Scrieve: to glide swiftly along; Also, to reel off, as a story.

Succubus: a class of demon who has intercourse with humans while they sleep

Scribbl/es: to write or draw hastily or carelessly; to fill or cover something with careless or worthless writings or drawled envelope; a piece of writing or a drawing that is done quickly or carelessly

amanuensis: (n) one employed to write from dictation or to copy manuscript like a calligrapher, copyist, or scribe.

In Latin, the phrase servus a manu translates loosely as “slave with secretarial duties.” (The noun manu, meaning “hand,” gave us words such as manuscript, originally meaning a document written or typed by hand.

In the 17th century the second part of this phrase was borrowed into English to create amanuensis, a word for a person who is employed (willingly) to do the important but sometimes menial work of transcribing the words of another.

Featured

“LeftSide Deafinit – Let Go (Official Video)”

No rights: homage to an artist i just came across for the first time.

Next level and on pointe.

Check out more here.

Chock full of symbolism, a vivacious beat that is well mixed, and

the video artwork left me wonderstruck.

Featured

Catchling calling.

You enter, please. Come to me catchling.

I hear you in the forest, leaves skulking.

I smell you just as before.

A little sleep following a long night jolts my mind into these new, waking dimension/s.

I turn

to look at you.

And, I know that I want.

I want with wanton desires.

This kindled flame did fell me before the universe in prostration to the sensation stirring in me.

I shall know you when I see you again. I see you everywhere.

My surrender to pursue the mastery of your pleasure and discomfort.

Your stoic stillness and

those heavy shoulders.

My reserved disposition conceals me

as I see past veils, into swirling thoughts of desires to devour.

Delectable with shameful kindness.

To tell you:

I want to.

I want, too.

I too want to.

Desire wanting after waiting

demands:

be wrapped in gossamer as I

shake you loose from yourself so you can breathe deeply

before me.

Featured

Rider and Driver

I reminded myself of my freedom upon awakening this morning.

Howl easy it is to say that word without meaningful intent.

Free from what?: you may ask.

I don’t know. Myself? Selective desires? What I wanted for other people?

My love of this particular previous mode of life.

I can keep my love and desire anywhere.

Choice and temperance decides if I wilt.

I choose to keep some with you because I can.

<>

Hansel and Gretel breadcrumbed the path of the trail taken.

The coach benched the less adept players.

They were told that they were lucky to make the team at all.

Tuned in ghosts may be friendly, right Casper?

My vocabulary grows.

<>

Giggle. Howl fun it is to smile at what others assumed would wreck you.

Howl I laugh at myself until ’til I cry.

Howl strange it makes me feel efficacious.

Everyone can name a thing that or a person who

they want.

Can they evidence a pursuit of the want?

How long can their arms carry wood during the winter.

How much sun can their skin take from the summer?

Silly beast, did you think an invoice for work done would be presented?

Flatter your-being a little more. But,

do not flatter your-self.

<>

The junko flits about the porch upon which I sit.

I doubt s/he has a plan or a concern for my prescence.

S/he is

hungry enough. To naught,

care to hide.

Stellars’ Jays are more self-aware. They won’t come over.

They just look on from the apposite rooftop.

Both can fly.

I know you can run, but can you lift off?

Why taxi on a runway

when there are

highways and byways?

A hitchhiker and a driver.

There is romance to it,

if you survive.

<>

I know you are a bullet. Don’t make me dodge you.

Shoot to kill, huh.

Catch and release?

I am not endangered so don’t bother.

Shoot to wound?

Crueler and more unusual.

Taxi your own dermis first because your trophies are only relevant to you.

Are you a trophy in anybody else’s eyes?

They will clean you regularly and prominently display you.

They may continue to amass more trophies.

Devaluation of a trophy holder not a trophy.

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I am a trenchant blade.

The kunst of a trenchant blade.

Unity does not provide

immunity, imp.

Impunity.

I am held fast, tonight, by unseen forces.

Letting letters flash before my eyes. Solitary reverie.

A silent moment un-obfuscated by the conversations of idle chatter.

I got nothing to talk to anybody about

on this Night Ride Home.

[]

An attempted review of causal factors.

A language within a language.

An odd mood becomes me these past couple of nights.

An internal bio-rhythm harkening me. But what does it signal? To what effect?

Am I being daft?

I know that which I miss, but what am I missing?

What did I miss?

Miss his hiss.

Misses Hiss.

[]

The corona is the crown of a head. Not a crown worn on a head.

Korone, garland wreath,

bursting from your skull as effulgent plumes, loops,

and multiform streams.

Plasma was found to be the fourth type of matter in the 1920’s.

Plasma derived from the ancient Greek word meaning

moldable substance.

Lightning and neon light produces plasma.

Corona is an aura of plasma

that surrounds the Sun and other stars.

[]

I am unrelenting not ceaseless. I am the yield of not yielding in strength, severity, or determination.

However, constant and unending?

Like a northern star?

Where’s that at? If you want me I’ll be in the bar.

[]

Wandering star, Venus.

The Greeks came to accept

what the Babylonians had already known.

The Status Quo and Muddy Waters.

They dedicated

The

Wanderer

To Aphrodite.

Vespers:

Supper

Prayers to the

Evening Star in the

West.

Roman Hesperus and Phosphorous.

.Hesperus is to Venus. :: .Phosphorus is to Eosphorus.

nOn Sense and Reference.

《》

INTERPRETATO GRÆCA :: INTERPRETATO ROMANA

“Greek/Roman translations.” Interpretations by means of Greek/Roman models.

A discourse that is a comparative methodology used to look for

equivalence/s

correspondence/s

resemblance/s

《Pliny the Elder》

NOMINA ALIA ALIIS GENTIBUS

The translatability of deities as different names to different people.

The syncretism of the Hellenistic.

《》

Die Krisis der europäischen Wissenchaften und die transzendentale Phänomenologie.

Telos: an ultimate object or aim

Entelech: realization of potential ; the supposed vital principle that guides the development and functioning of an organism or system

The sēmeion as the signal evidencing the daimonion.

A Phædo.

Featured

To Nick a Horse’s Tail? Parçigal writes

I it is,

writing to you as A’ licentious Alice, a chalice, from AL by way of LA origin-ally, with houndstooth donned:

It is the sense of loving the moment. It is remembering the sensation of meta/physical love and then remembering the sensation of how it feels to lose it. That ache. That sense of how many times will they wreck me?. How many times will I play the Fool?

Again and again.

Why lose the Fool of yourself? If I killed the Fool inside to be hip, where did the real me go? With whom do you share your inner fool? Can guarding it be anything authentic?

In this mp3 and streaming world, a mix CD burned,

a cassette tape made,

breaks my heart right open. Is that why we have one?

This is not sadness; it is a necessary devouring of self.

A Happy Death.

My existential orientation continuously regenerates as at the point of origin, and I can be painfully patient; but,

does your silence actually speak: you are only useful until used?

Bemused at the thought. At you. By you.

And, a comma can change the entire meaning of a sentence: I say.

I know your way.

I knew before you showed me.

You play semantics and fancy it is a game?

<>

Splayed pieces parsed in preparation of a preheating oven.

The intimacy of this is but the sense of mind behind it.

I understood that years ago. I learnt it in a dream.

Tonight, I feel my patience hotly boil, as though I must make it into impatience simply to show you my elasticity.

You say: I’ve been here before.

So? I’ve been here forever: I reply,

Curtly but with a curtsey.

Here, where the desire to conduct currents raises meta/physical energy in the nerve endings concealed under my skin.

What a waste to not make use of it.

I would waste that energy on you alone.

Waste it in the face of

your silence.

I will howl until you howl back, to punish you.

Does that spook you,

you ghost of the man of May?

Giggle-snarl.

I espied your inconsistency immediately since taking my flight of departure.

Curious.

It was my mistake. I should not have allowed you to let me leave. I thought I was being kind, but I was only being polite. Stay. That’s what I really meant to say or do this time.

I abide still. I stoke fires. I test the limit.

I care for you. That is all. I can unconditionally hold you(,) dear.

My love is not tethered to needing love.

My devotion is my loyalty to my beloved. You endeared yourself to me.

I desire you. Now you must suffer the cost of your own, odd charms.

It is no matter of ‘should’ you, but rather, ‘could’ you

tell me true?

If you could, I hold you(,) dear.

If you could not, I hold you(,) dear.

<>

There is heavy magic in your air and I am magnetized.

Some integral things reduce to simple vibrations, to sounds, to sounds like bays, being transmitted through our air.

I wrote all these words first

in longhand to show you how inane I can be.

How frighteningly unafraid

you could be,

should you so choose, ewe.

Or, perhaps, your hands are tied.

Perhaps you have no choice but to be so.

I learn the record of your timeframes

still.

Deliciously diabolical it seems: both your pleasure and your desperation.

Does it make you forget which side of the road on which you ought to be driving?

Were you just checking out your mojo?

Taking me for a ride in your fast car?

There. Am I impressed?

Hum.

Good question.

Can you answer this: if I told you that your heart belongs to me now, would you hold your head up high in the air?

Could you even if you wanted?

Could you even say if you didn’t?

The difference between ‘can’ and ‘may.’

Simon says he went birdwatching but only saw his own feet.

Not many birds to be seen in that scene?

Just grounded, flightless birds, you adorable dodo.

<>

I saw a porcupine ripping out its own quills,

one by one by one,

by one at a time.

Onlookers horrified at the sight of so much blood.

The porcupine stabs them while they are stunned into stillness by the reverie-stupor of their surprise.

Slaying ampersand slain.

I see your look of discomfort at this friction.

<>

There was a slight drizzle of rain

as I laid myself

down to sleep early this morning.

I imagined how lovely it would be to

put my hand about your pelvic flair.

The jut of your hipbone.

Cup it like an anchor to

hold me fast

in what dreams may come.

[☆]

The night sky was so poorly lit, that I could see

moths flying away from it.

Fleeing the lack of light is not the same as seeking a light.

I raise my lantern for you tonight.

If it is lit

it is done so through and not by me.

But, for you is for whom I raise it.

A beckoning through a beacon.

Here is your

sea shore.

Fall, like a wave, upon me.

Surrender your summer-self and embrace the autumnal ewe, you.

Featured

Water, no ice.

I seat you.

I put down

Menu/s.

Menues.

minutes of

minute

minuettes

A fun dance, perhaps,

Menuet?

<>

Your food arrives.

You chew and

Swallow it into your

hollow.

Hallow and also

a shallow wallow.

Low halls, and(,) walls.

<>

Allow

how many commas in the Oxford Comma?

Coma correction.

<>

Your indignity makes me indignant.

Indigestion is caused by digestion but not

by the undigestable.

Featured

Watch “TOOL – Fear Inoculum (Audio)”

No rights: homage to a band I have loved for two decades.

Giggle. Despite myself.

New track released today.

Get the inoculation.

Get their music. Listen to it as an album.

Seriously. Howl excited am I? Too excited.

Featured

“R.E.M. – The One I Love (Later With Jools Holland)”

No rights: homage

Southern, punky in their style, given that they came from Georgia (albeit the artist’s savehaven of Athens which is historically known for its indie music scene).

I dig them much. Great players with dynamic, live charisma.

The vocal echo being sung after Stipe’s gives me chills.

They are geniuses at subtlely. Their content gets revolutionary for their context, but it is only whispered. Very articulately. And, their appeal across the spectrum is undeniable. A rare combo.

Featured

Top Quotes from Foucault’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco

Umberto Eco became like a new Hermann Hesse to me, over the last two years.

I have only read Foucault’s Pendulum and On Literature, but these were undertakings filled with amazing rabbit holes.

I recently reread the pages of notes I took from Foucault’s Pendulum. A very hermetic-y work, at least to my unaffiliated eyes.

Here are my favorites.

Believe there is a secret and you will feel like an initiate. It costs nothing…to live as if there were a Plan.

To dismantle the world into two saraband of anagrams.

Le monde est fait pour aboutir a un livre (faux).

Tout se tient.

Books of diabolicals must not innovate.

Yearning for mystery. Initiation is learning never to stop.

The most powerful secret is a secret without content.

Foucault’s Pendulum

Umberto Eco, Author, Eco, Author, William Weaver, Translator Houghton Mifflin Harcourt (HMH) (656p) ISBN 978-0-15-132765-2. Trade edition.
Featured

Across from Howell Way

The song’s tempo shifts and

the outfit slides easily into

a softer sound.

Impeccably nuanced for a bar band.

<>

R. used to own the joint; but he sold it.

Allegedly.

He would neither confirm nor deny this.

He heard him directly asked twice, separately, and all he would give up is:

I work here.

He returns nightly.

He emerges from the back of house with a

fresh bus rag. He flaps it,

like a matador,

before folding it into a small square.

He does not even give up

a smile.

He magically produces a broom and dust pan to

sweep the carpet.

They don’t make ’em like that anymore?

Hardest working man in show business.

<>

The smell of cologne breaks through, suddenly.

I breathe it in deep. Try to see the source.

That was a fun song: the singer says, tuning his guitar.

He and the fellow on keys banter between songs. Long enough to be ready for the next song. Not too long.

The bass and drums do not laugh along or smile.

The funky bassist.

There is a reason he is front and center.

He has no mic. He does not solo.

Nothing is the only part he overplayed.

He is perfectly on point. Tight.

Anchoring.

A self-indulgent guitar solo becomes necessary at his command.

The guitarist announces the set break.

We now pause for this brief station identification: I think.

Guitar and keys wander out the back door

to the smoker haven.

Bass bums around with the crowd.

The perfectly understated drummer (rarest of the rare) escapes my awareness.

I look up at the screen above me and am informed carpet is being liquidated.

I stop looking at the screen.

The bassist is the first to return to his position.

Standing in his spot. Waiting.

The drummer appears moments later. Seated at his station.

Tick, tick.

The bassist sits down on an amp and starts playing along with the song on the jukebox.

/gotta have that funk/

You got it: I think.

He plucks a quick harmonic, wrapping up, as the guitar and keys return to the stage.

Stands back up, he takes his place between the two.

Guitar and the fellow on keys banter. Long enough to be ready for the next song. A bit closer to too long this time.

Tuning strings, the singer says: all right. We are gonna play the same set for you all over again…you guys look like you’re having a good enough time that you won’t even notice.

Hell, half of ’em probably don’t realize that you are a cover band: I think.

Deep cuts selected.

Covers of covers.

An undercover, cover band.

<>

Clearing empties and wiping away the sticky of slightly, sloshed beer spills,

R. stops by my table.

He calls me by first and last name.

When did I tell you that information, sly, observant one?

Featured

Belligerent B’s

break

bread.

[tread the thread]

breadth read, dear.

red

breath. rath. dare tar he/r.

breathe bare, bear.

here

hear

her beat- tab.

hearth- the heart,

ear at the earth.

<⊙>

heat herb tea. bard art. he

bathed at

Bath.

bather: hare; bat; rat.

rate brat hate

[TARE]

Featured

Parçigal Passionately Possessed

My deer, stag,

I it is.

It is I binding you in this ecstatic existence, suspended between

the Star and the Satellite.

The sun and the moon; yet, it is you they call Janus.

I am the feminine, arched gate-way granting the descent of your

spirit into matter anew.

I do not redeem, I conduct currents.

The sea of PARChVAL is the conjunction of /K/ and /C/.

I am the sea, KC, the reason

a /z/ becomes /c/

Parzival becomes Parçigal.

Congruence creates /Ch/

Why do you think I remember my name is also /Alice/, at least sometimes?

KC becomes Ch(eth) and conjuncts to /Alice/ through a confluence of circumstances causing me to recollect that I am

A ChAlice of Ecstasy. A grail.

GRAL, deer Parzival.

moon and sun

known to gods and, simultaneously, known to k/NO/w-One.

Socratic circles unaware of one another.

Let us ignore the voyeurs gawking at love’s blazon painted on our lips

We exhibit authenticity in current, capacity, and conduction without being simple exhibitionists.

They tricked you into believing you are the monster and me a prize if pure.

Howl silly they were.

I want your masculine beauty, that prettiness you cannot see,

to come

to love

the feral beast I conceal in my hotly, howling heart.

I show her to few outside the eyes of ewe.

Come

sit beside me and show me ewers.

Let me call you a pretty thing, fellow.

This gal knows objectification as well as the absence of it. All gals do.

It becomes a bore, sweet sorrel.

They taught you the trick of objectifying

Let us trade places, like swapping clothes.

You may become the direct object of the verb I enact.

I will do the work because I want to see if it makes you squirm.

To see if it makes me squirm to do.

The embarrassment of being kindly admired.

The sensation of feeling yourself being eaten by the eyes of another.

Empty yourself so that I can see you better.

So, I can better show you yourself as my eyes see you.

My mirror may reflect the unexpected.

Do not spook, unless you must,

when you discover you are the Dove and I am the female goat.

Secret she-satyr.

Why do I think we should go on?

Because what else is there to do?

As far as I can tell, ain’t nothing else happening at all.

Shall we find something which makes us belly-laugh?

Care to cackle along with me?

Cast upon me your strange glances, my deer-man.

My irises drink them like wine intoxicating my soul.

Straddle two shores of consciousness:

with one foot in every-day

and one in ecstasy.

In a balanced imbalance.

Our wabisabi is our Tao.

Tell them that they may call us by the handles

Priapus & Pearl.

Those dummies don’t know that my mantle is reversible.

They only see the dark side, the light side; and they leap to the conclusion

it must be so below, on the underside that is hidden from view,

as it is above.

It is red where the two sides meet.

The red turns green when I see you;

although you cannot see it,

you can feel it as a sudden drop in ambient temperature.

Being bespoke, not beholden.

Not needing, choosing.

Bound in the unbinding of wearing each other’s invisible maverick’s branding.

They will know us by

howl freely

we move as ourselves.

Our brand is authenticity having no mark burned into the skin.

A silence screaming: simply see and know.

Be still for me and feel the essence of softness?

Make your hardness melt into delicious vulnerability?

I will call you /Sweet Thing/ in such moments, derelict deer.

And, I will wonder at those instants when your eyes cannot meet mine.

I will call them up to me without words.

Your eyes will go wide, then soften to

see me look upon you with such hard eyes.

This is how

my femininity penetrates you.

All this I can do while

taking care

to not stomp the little flowers growing underfoot.

These are the open secrets of our Tao.

Inner sanctum unseen by the sleepwalkers.

Methodology provoking zealous jealousy in awoken ones.

They see us and cannot remember

if love differs from devotion.

I can show you how to move mountains.

It is as simple as letting yourself hold my hand.

I hold the world for ransom when I take your face between my palms.

Unspoken psalms.

What comes next

be-comes

unspeakable.

Just like Tao cannot be apprehended through words

(only hinted at)

It can only be obtained

through direct experience.

Featured

This is Numberwang?

This is Numberwang?

(Kindly let me know if my math does not tally below. I tried to check and recheck it, but…)

<◇>

Q: When was 120 minutes ago from now?

A: It was two hours ago.

<◇>

When was one hundred and sixty four billion (164,000,000,000) minutes ago?

Hum, huh?

~

My illiteracy with numbers occurs at a certain threshold.

Numerical literacy*? Not my strong suit. So, I play with numbers, with what I can imagine.

For example, I can imagine a triangle, a square, a pentagram, a hexagon, a septagon, an octagon. But, I cannot imagine, or see in my mind’s eye what a 25 sided polygon would look like. I would have to try to draw it.

There is a 10,000 sided polygon, called a myriagon, according to geometry.

I will take their word for it because I cannot imagine being able to imagine what that would actually like.

~

I am not monied. The difference between one million dollars and one billion dollars? Well, sure, ‘orders of magnitude’, but I only understand that in the abstracted sense. The practical difference between such huge numbers is not immediately obvious to me. But, the news, scientific research, and governments, regularly inundate us with such large numbers.

~

Do a thought experiment with me? I wanna know:

Q1. How far could the millions of dollars, comprising a billion dollars, go?

Q2. If I had one hundred and sixty four billion dollars (as I hear someone in America truly does) and I gave away one million dollars per day, how many days before I am broke? Let’s pretend I keep my $164,000,000,000.00 in cash in a safe. That means my money is not making more money via interest, returns, dividends.

If I have one billion dollars in cash, let’s imagine it’s kept in one million dollar bills. I would have one thousand of these million dollar bills.

I could give one of the $1,000,000 bills everyday for 1,000 days before running out of money.

If there are 365 days a year, 1,000 days is about 2.75 years.

The difference between a million and a billion, practically speaking?

A1. You can give away $1,000,000.00 everyday for almost three years before exhausting $1,000,000,000.00

So, how much more than 1 billion dollars is 164 billion dollars, practically speaking?

Well, if it takes 1,000 days, of giving away 1 million dollars each day, to get rid of a billion dollars;

It would take 164 times longer to give away $164,000,000,000.00 than it would take to give away $1,000,000,000.00

1,000 x 164 = 164,000 days

164,000 days = 449 years and a few months.

If I had $164,000,000,000 ($164 billion), I could give away $1,000,000 ($1 million) everyday for 449 years.?

Fuck.

Now that I see it this way it only raises more, honest questions from an ignorant me.

How much money do people need?

And why? To what end and what do they intend?

______________

*My own numerical illiteracy was introduced to me by a slim, charming book called Innumeracy by John Allen Paulos which I found tucked away in the statistician’s, my father, bookcase.

The idea is wittily conveyed in the sixth chapter of the second section of Douglas R. Hofstader’s book Meta Magical Themas: Questing for the Essence of Mind and Pattern.

The chapter is called Number Numbness.

Both are written for non-math-savvy folks and both pieces manage to entertain with humor.

Featured

Tangential Orienteering

I walk to the new gig. First-day-of-school-style outfit donned. Old, fuzzy threads, nonetheless.

I espy a blanch in a branch of the shrub, with wooden threads of splintered

timber;

And, my mind initiates the below (tangent umpteenth).


That timbre of timidity from the ghost mice scurrying under my feet,

running like a wide river at a moderate water pressure.

They can give your toes an itch or a twitch.


Quick as you please, I leap to the limb.

Back to the blanched branch which is

splaying, shredding, snapping,

no longer bending.

Critical load bearing exceeded.

The shrub shrugs

it off like a crab with a too-tight shell.


I was warned it was awful hot

to walk to that new spot.

Do I want a ride there in your car? Thank you, kindly,

but, nah.

I forget how to breathe in those things.

I cannot forget how to breathe when walking

in the heat.

I arrive to do the job and their A/C is on the fritz.

The windows bring the sun in full frontal until night falls.

Hotter than the hot outside,

front and back of house have been sweating it out longer than me.

Spots of,

the sheen of,

sweat in my hairline,

on my neck’s nape,

curling strands; and signaling:

simpatico.


sections within floor charts ; table numbers ; two and four tops ; spare chairs ; polished silver.

A dining room

laid out.

Down.

She told me: I make circles and keep up everything with my eyes. You can circle the floor without hitting a wall and having to turn around abruptly.

No dead ends, eh?

I remember walking these circles with open eyes: I think.

I smile.

Featured

Howl Meta

metathesis: transposition or interchange

metastatis: change and shifting

Metatithemi: interpose; change a meaning

I can, could, and will suppose.

Disposition inclined to supposition,

I suppose.

Labyrinths leading no-where.

Douse the flame?

You better grab your dowsing rod.

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Prosing

I see enough motion to let it hold me

still.

I hear enough sound to let it shut my mouth.

Choices made

Timely dummy.

A day spent in an automobile.

The free riff of the exhaust pipe of a car in front of you in

Traffic just makes want a smoke today.

I opt not.

Vaporization. No combustion like an engine.

Nicotine: grease stopping the grinding of gears.

Politics prattle, pressing patience, like so much blood into wine,

Sounds of it waft, as aromas, into my ears for sniff n’ smell.

Emerge from a news blackout to find your-self

A Stranger in a Strange Land;

yet, still, I feel like every-thing

I missed, while sleeping, slept, also.

So, Who is on first, yeah?

But, who is lucid?

Featured

Unposted Letters Containing Letters.

I found an old letter

I had

written you.

Unposted despite having postage.

I let it age for you, ewe.

I could no longer read my own hand.

In my cans, no-one speaks, as I scribble this idyll for the popular, un-idle, idol.

Casting pods like fishing nets

sewn by hand.

Longhand and cool-handed.

Nothing in my hands.

A

Little something kept on-hand.

The noon approaches and I remember the rattlers.

Snakes giving fair warning: kindly, don’t tread on me.

Whispers of wisteria wander.

Shouting sprouts ready to be snapped then snatched from stems.

Quiet quilts covering made-up beds.

Panting pansies parched for water to partake.

What’s the plan?: he asks.

Wait and see?: I sheepishly speculate.

Why do you do what you do?: he asks.

Because, I can. The difference between ‘could’ & ‘should’ still alludes, though.: I say.

I walk the aisles of miles between your vines. I share the plants’ oxygen and they rebirth my breath.

Gaseous exchanges of my alveoli.

Nitrogen; Oxygen; Carbon Dioxide.

Periodic tabling with held breath.

Breathe, you; I hold my breath, not for you, dear sorrel,

I hold my breath for naught

other than myself,

for my next step.

I take the rite of alternating left foot/right foot,

Of being pedestrian.

I told him: I’m better on my feet.

The voice came through my cans

and said: I function better with the sun in my eyes.

I misheard it as something filthy and smile in realization of my mistake.

My eyes are moons whence comes all of tomorrow’s noons.

Day-suns.

Ræ-moons

floating in bluə-day skies,

stormy and grəy, like your

Sky-eyəs over a

choppy, white-capped səa.

Featured

Talking in my Sleep

I fell

asleep too early only to awaken at three a.m., then, five thirty a.m.

Dreaming in lines of prose

For the first time in a while.

/a kitchen hood fan/

I shoot awake and word-play potentialities for the phrase.

Three contexts I conjure before kicking the endeavor to

Fall

asleep again.

N plays ball with the deceased Jessie-pup.

A Border Collie with no one to herd but a slobber-covered tennis ball.

“She doesn’t know when to quit. She gives herself heat stroke. Don’t let her eyes get too red. She needs a summer shave. I did not know that she was still running.”

A nod acknowledges.

Then I remember, the gal knows how to throw the ball with her own mouth.

Huh.

A sharp knocking kicks me conscious.

Hello?

Just hammers from next door’s reconstruction.

Good morning.

Coffee. Chug.

Walk the block.

My body awoke, but the coffee still ain’t caught what passes for my mind up.

I sleepwalk.

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Watch “A-WA – “Hana Mash” (Recorded Live for World Cafe)” on YouTube

No rights: homage

Dig their style much.

A gem discovered this morning.

I am not a morning person by nature but this song had me moving and smiling.

Instant shot of swagger.

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Hardware Store

I stopped by.

The lady at the register compliments my manners.

“I am from the South,” I say.

“I know that,” she says.

[Shrug]

She says: I don’t believe in tearing down statues.

I intuit that she is okay with the tearing down of statutes.

No one thinks they are the baddies: I proffer.

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Unscreened Skin

Gravity is different by

The Sound.

It pulls heavy and only at

obtuse angles.

Obstinate ampersand obdurate.

Reorientation of the body required.

Leaning forward or back in

pendulous periodicities.

Diabolical hills slanting, paving the path into the noonday sun.

We no longer need wings like Icarus to get

close enough to be burned.

To melt.

Beadlets of perspiration drop into my eyes.

I pretend it stings with the sunscreen

I forgot to put on me.

I am not made-up.

No protection from the ol’ grease-paint.

No quarter from the shade of trees, these days.

Freckles bloomed on my face two days ago.

I catch full-on colo/u/r, now.

An intersection provides me two options:

i) turn 90° and

go horizontal.

ii) climb to-wards the sun.

Y-axis at the point of origin. Straight vertical.

I go up. Higher.

My breath catches-up with the momentum of my stride…..

…… 30 seconds later.

My heart catches my breath

…………60 seconds later……..

I reach the near-top.

False tree-line, per se.

My face suddenly blooms into a rose.

Red. Ruddy.

Like someone made me blush rather too easily.

I relish.

I smell active.

I actively smell

through nasal inhalation

and oral exhalations.

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Over the Pint

He told me, up front, he was gonna try to lead me to Christ.

There is a difference between ‘devotion’ and ‘love’: the man tells me.

You dont have to have one to have the other: I ask.

No: he says; and, then he brings up Satan.

I ask: how we could have Job if the devil and god did not need each other?

The barkeep checks on us.

We were having too good a discussion.

No arguement.

Curious.

I think: you are a good representative for your tribe.

Then I tell him I think so.

He smiles. My goal accomplished.

Featured

Watch “Kalalea – 1893 || Hawaiian Protest Rap” on YouTube

No rights: homage to voices speaking their truth.

poetry in practice.

Political eloquence.

Sincerity shines.

Kind, too.

I believe more can be found here.

Apologies, if I am mistaken.

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Speakeasy Alleys

The fan at the bar who

drank zero drinks for

hours

leaps to his feet

/baby says she’s mine/

/you know she tells me all

the time/

/you know she said so/

He flashed a fiver

and dances up the length

of the bar’s entrance

and back down again.

Pro-offered & finally

accepted.

A silver fox takes his

hand.

Howl they dance.

She dances with him

through the next three

covers.

Not a bad turn around on

investment, in this fool’s eyes.

A girl dances along-side

them and begins waving.

Then, she plays it off.

She did not know to

whom she waved.

But, maybe she will.

Ever-one jumps up and

rushes to dance to CCR.

I say: I like the smell of

your leather.

He says: you’re the girl in

the black dress.

I say: there’s some white

crosshairs on here.

He smiles; and, I walk away.

I espy the Dance Partner

give her number away

while all ages free-dance

I overhear: it is what it is

Howl yes

It is

And, the band howls:

Here it comes

/well nothing I do don’t

seem to work, <howl>, it

only seems to make

matters worse/

The bassist nails the

outro.

Then, on the next song,

the band changes singers.

They break into

Rebel, Rebel. They

miss a line.

They redeem the

recapitulation of

Ziggy Stardust

/gurl, I want to be with

you/

It is funny

Go across an ocean and

they sing southern, u.s. rock.

Come back home and all they wanna sing

is the British invasion.

A breeze blows from

The Sound

as I walk home alone.

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Aw howl

My ego is howling like a dog who gnawed its leg off after getting caught in the rusted teeth of a bear trap.

Snared in a trap meant to catch the more prized, highly appraised game,

not this bitch.

Don’t fret.

The fitt moves through me like beer.

I will piss it out in five minutes.

Same way I learned how to never be cold: let it flow through your nerves.

Don’t fight it.

Move like water

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Improudst (a fake word)

Improudst: to be proud (without being prideful) and impressed at the same time. Remove any context of patronizing condescension. A sub-sense of glad.


Perhaps, the distinction is

arbitrary.

Arbiters and arbitration.

You know the contract only allows for third-party mediation.

No civil,

state, or federal matter.

Signed away for re-insurance.

A contract written in favor of the contractor.

Write.

Rite.

Right.

The locals always laugh at the outfits of outsiders.

Shutter speed unable to

capture the insider’s view.

Lurid does not mean illicit,

Nor does it imply morbidity.

Fecundity. Gestational periods are not

sette in stone.

A set containing itself is self-referential.

A sette that sings itself.

So, I ask myself: can you tell me something good?

Howl, yes: I think.

“Thanks, that means a lot coming from myself.”

I can chop like a master. Slowly.

The vivisection of a tomato

is proof of magic.

Oranges grow on trees whether

you have a personal savior

or not.

Howl-lelujah: say mavericks.

Please, do not be cross with me, kindly.

God does not speak to me directly.

Don’t take pity; take patience in exposition?

That of which you have proof

alludes us.

So, let’s

Come Together

To Talk?

Featured

Swallows are Birds

I heard that hard swallow at being told: no, you can’t;

The situation is too volatile.

Vulnerability.

(It’s okay to be enraged at potentially outrageous situations).


A shot fired. Guns.

A shot snapped. Cameras.

A shot of courage. Liquor.


Vaccinated but not contaminated.

The etymology of the epidemiological epistemology of existentialism.

The dose is the poison.

The poison is the dose.

Salk knew it.

“The dose reveals” says the allegory of Watson & Crick.

Svetlana Zakharova as Aegina, Spartacus

No rights: just homage.

Utterly unlike most other ballets with which I am familiar.

The beginning seems a bit campy. Perhaps dated.

Give it a little less than three minutes and see a reincarnated pole dance.