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.


Serving Specters


Sit by the fire in the hearth.

I will put my chin on your knee, stare into the ether and let my thoughts run.

Perched upon your feet, keeping your toes warm.

Sitting on the floor.

Closer to the earth.

The storm passes, the rain relents, and the sky above the Sound nearly recovers.

The air outside remains cold.

Locals say this place is cursed.

I’ve seen enough tragedies in others in my four months here, to believe it.

Heard of even more.

Yet, here shall I establish my residence.

A mid-thirty year old,

amongst the retirees still seeing themselves as inhabitants of Stellar Street.

Mick and Keith working the corner shop.

The wealthy snow birds hum, at the restaurant where I work, about migrating to the South for the winter.

Winter homes.

“Guess how old I am”: he says.

His wife giggles.

Howl I loathe this game.

But, this pair is old enough to not take anything personally.

78: I guess.

The correct answer is 97.

He proceeds to tell me experiences from both the first and second world wars.

I am captivated.

They do not take their leftovers to go. They turn down the offer of free bread.


The less well-to-do appear even more non-corporeal.

No winter homes to which they may abscond.

Disembodied spirits of bodies that no longer exist.

To serve and host at this restaurant requires second sight.

Many of these people long ago became invisible to most.

Are you Irish?: he asks.

No, I’m from the South.

Oh, I was stationed there with the good old boys. They went to bars during their off-time. I went to museums and landmarks. But, I was odd.: he tells me.

He shares stories of being an 18 year old from Montana who ended up in the South during George Wallace days.

I am captivated.

He and his wife take their leftovers home in a box and ask for extra free bread

which they are given.


A nuzzle

Let me nuzzle my cheek, just barely, against the uppermost part of your pectoral muscle while you tell me stories of before I knew you.

Let us, again, rub limbs together like how crickets sing, to keep warm.

Because I can see the pending winds of winter on the watery horizon of the Sound admidst the

clouds of steely grey.

Smoke from some celestial dragon finishing an exhalation

from his degree of inclination.

Pull close in arms and tether me against you.

Listen to the furnace rattle and to the homestead’s ribbing creaks.

Because, when the partially frozen rain begins descending,

we wilt not see but what is immediately in front of us,

So, let it be one to the other, through this season of alaying bare.


Elliptical orbits

Absconding into the maelstrom, with the spirals of myself.

These circles containing and being contained by me.

Upon hearing your kindly laugh, my torso relaxes and I smile then

miss my train

of thought.

And, oh, how today’s strange sun casts a horrific smile over the snow-peaked caps, without melting them bare.

With caprice.

But, this coming winter, that is misery’s company, loves to re-enliven

a springtime bloom.

These changes in the degree, the continued inclination of rotations, occur.

Turning the cosmos on and off with the flick of a switch.

And, atoms look solid but there is so much space within them.

Hollowness of the empty plenum.

You can accomplish all and everything in the company of infinity,

because nothing there is done incrementally.

Evolution moves more quickly when our orbit is at its most elliptical.


Re-cognition to Pre-position

He says: Attention is not the same as recognition.

I reply: What if you seek the attention of just one, only to be gained through recognition?

A remembrance of your re-cognition.

Private exhibitions in a single gallery.

Not a diasporic display, even if openly splayed.

The change from bitter to better is [i] before [e]

Except after [c], like my initial.

So, Æ remain unembittered for the better; but,

sometimes, my left eye twitches

A defiance of my body in the face of the mirrored reflection of self-control.

Self-taxing to grow your privatized, closed economy.

And, I scriven in this big notebook with smut.

Do most people know for whom they make themselves appear

or do they just present?

I should have written the words flowing through mind as I slipped to sleep, last night,

because, now, they come less easily.

Exfoliating feedback into smoothness.

Bang and blame.

Someone imitating you back to yourself to show how ugly you just appeared to them.

Trying to tell the girl who dogged herself to her face.

You remind me of mom, making that face: she says, making a face.

That’s exactly the kind of thing our mom would say to flip the script when she feels uncomfortable: I think but do not say.

The hinterlands wherein we hide behind passive aggressive similes and abide behind thoughts unsaid.

I am not whom I used to be; and, you liked her better; but, I like me more.

Price your art for your target markets and I’ll keep giving myself out for free.

Valued or bought and sold?

Valueless or invaluable?

Just desserts or just dessert?

A dable of monsoon in a desert.

Success for me is not success for you.

Success for me is the Tao of doing while still being able to notice when my bootlaces untie; so, I may, once again, pull this sea monster heart up by them.

He says: I know the magic trick called Algerian Bootstrapping.

I giggle.

I wasn’t talking about you, but I like to: I say with the pedantic, daft determination of someone choosing to end her sentence with a preposition.



Period Pains – Homework (Peel Session)

No rights: homage.

/Do your homework/

/hand it in/

/do your homework/

/you can’t win/.

The newly hired, seventeen year old busser arrives for her fifth shift.

I have been training her; and, she is under the mistaken impression that she answers to me.

She walks up to me and says: I know I’m supposed to wear all black, but I felt like wearing green today.

She wears a lovely army-style green button down shirt.

Am I busted or does it really matter?: she asks.

Yeah, it matters: I laugh: They’re gonna make you go home and change, I bet, but talk to J.

J. sends her home to change clothes.

I think: she’s gonna fit in just fine, on this isle of misfit toys, if she can deal with wearing the uniformed colour.


Concatenate through Catalisis

Consider an unabiding yet unbidden compulsion to comply.

Like how geometrical axioms are neither synthetic judgements made a priori, nor are they experimental facts.

They are conventions.

I do not enliven life through vitiating the mystical.

Yet, I use geometrical axioms everyday.

The magical, unconventional nature of all of our common conventions.

The cost of convenience should be underwritten in insurance policies.

The difference between idée reçue and idée fixe.

To understand universal symbolism you must realize

it is all subliminal.

A real dilemma, in the technical sense of formalized logic.

The associated oxyopia.

The difference between invoking and evoking.

What you see inside the mirror is just an image of reality,

a virtual reality- a dream.

So what are we, but breathing mirrors, dreaming ourselves awake with

an intuitively informed sense of discrimination, with this ability to perceive patterns.

Being perceptive is to be Praterhuman.

Someone asks: Why do you always speak in such language?

My eyes go wide, in pure surprise.

How could I not?: I blurt out.


From a planked position.

Troubadours clap out: one, two, three, four

before launching their song.

Choreographers snap: five, six, seven, eight.

Í, silently, count

one, two, three



{Inhale and move.

An animal playing her lungs,

with the discipline of the earnest open-amateur.

Done for pleasure and not profit.}

A fugue of breath.


There is no room for thought when stood upon only one foot’s toes.

There is just getting oxygen to muscles without falling too hard.

Repeat until the body is too tired to not sleep.

It is not always elegant, and sometimes,

it becomes less so as the progression continues.


The point is the intent to doing;

and, the resultant action.

You’ve got to enjoy

the ride

until, abdomen and sides ache from maintaining

unnaturally natural postures.

It is in this ephemeral space from which

Í best perceive the flowing visions.

Pure restraint,

Time in mind.

Coalescing confluence of the conjunction

of this intersection of dimensions.

Planes upon planes with turtles

all the way down.

A whirling dervish aside a spiraling top.

Spinning pips and mumbly peg.

I do what I can to pass the time.

Only boring people suffer from boredom.

Says the voice called: don’t stop now.

So, í drop into a planked position.

A push up posture slowly dropped into an upwards arch.

Face presented to the moon.


Folding shoulders

With idiosyncratic impunity,

to own this longing to belong…

Sacred wood is the heaviest to carry,

But the most worthwhile in terms of time to cost,

down to, smouldering, remaining benefits of glowing embers.

Whose odd, red light trembles like magma flows.

And a voice more clearly reveals that it is a musical instrument

when it speaks in languages foreign,

In a strange tongue

that makes my shoulders suddenly fall forward,

caving in

going downwards

Shallowing into empty water lakes

into the above of

each, respective collarbone.

Where skin becomes



Sunday Morning Song

Elizabeth Cotton picking and singing Freight Train.Turns out this was the first song Lucinda Williams learned to play.

{Hither and zither, the sheet music “shows you which notes to pick”.


None of the clocks on my appliances match

the time displayed on the screens of my devices.

Because moments changed

Over night,

As if by magic.

The practicality of protracted wakeful periods during daylight hours.

The associated productivity increase.

You can get a lot of work done, outside, when you sleep all night

And only become conscious when the sun is up.

But, you can learn a lot by staying up all night and sleeping through the day.

My alarms continue their incremental resounding.

Like they do when I gotta work the restaurant.

But, not today.


is my

off day.


[clears throat]



I let

the alarms





Freight train,

Freight train,

runs so fast


I do strange things with my sleeping.

An alarm set at 3:33 a.m.

To force me awake to immediately resume sleeping.

I easily become lucid in dreams this way.

At the very least, it consistently improves my dream recall.


Please don’t tell what train I’m on.

They won’t know what route I’m gone.


I sleep upside down,




Bed properly remade

Clean sheets

But with my head at my feet.

Pillows at the wrong end.

Feet by where a head usually is.


Place the stones at my head and feet

Tell them all that I’ve gone sleep.


I wake,



Flit to the kitchen.

Make the mistake of reading poetic words

And I feel my heart beat.

Like the water had actually been coffee.


From The Book of Hours (Rainer Maria Rilke)

Now the hour bends down and touches me

with it’s clear, metallic ring:

my senses tremble. The feeling forms: I can—–

and I grasp the malleable day.

Nothing was complete before I saw it,

all becoming stood still.

My eyes are ripe, and whatever they desire

approaches like a bride.

Nothing is too small: against a lovely background

I paint it large and lovingly

and hold it high, and I will never know

whose soul it may release…

The Poetry of Rilke. ISBN: 978-0-374-53271-0


Sharply Honed

One is not obligated to the obliging one.


Something bespoke is not beholden.


Trail heads.

Heady tales.

What is my secret?

To appear as though I have a sweet, secret.

This smile whispering to you, making you wonder:

what produces it,

it comes from the desire to make you believe that

í know something that you do not.

To make you wonder until

you must inquire,

“What makes her grin in that

small, lips-closed and

pressed-pursed way?”

To make you want to wipe it off my face,

if you cannot know.

Howl this only makes my grin grow.

Ask me in private, and you will see my upper lip

arch into a sinister snarl.

Because there is no one else t/here.

No one to save you, or overhear the

sound of the feral ferocity,

whose volume keeps rising in my harbour.

Silly beast, it is true:

You are brut(e).

You came for me.

You come to me,

to slay the dragon

stalking me; but, you

now see how it wraps itself around me,

slickly leather wings folding around my shoulders as does a shawl.

See how I play with and stroke the tips of its scaly wings?

It is my shadow companion.

My gossamer wings keeping it warm.

The fire of its breath keeping my second set of wings, steely knives, sharply honed.

This is the power of having an open secret.

Í have nothing to lose by revealing myself, but

you have everything to gain if

í do.


A hallow on the high street.

I arrive at the restaurant through the back door.

I walk through the kitchen into the back office to drop off my coat and purse.

A book of poems by René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke sits on the employee table. I know it has been dropped off for me to take and read.

But, there is no note and no one says anything of it.

I do not bring it up.

The community blocks off the high street this evening.

No cars are allowed. Only hoards of costumed pedestrians.

The restaurant is booked. Chock full of reservations.

We are situated in the heart of the affair.

The previous owner, who retired two years ago arrives

to distribute candy with the new owner.

I introduce myself and

open with: so you released this place two years ago?

Yup. After twenty one years.: he shrugs.

Did you found the joint?

No. We inherited/bought it from the previous owners.

Was it called the same name when you took over, or did you change it?

Yup. It was called by the same name.

Do you want some hot tea to take with you? It is cold out there.

I want a glass of chardonnay at exactly seven o’clock, when this ends.

I make a sticky note reminder and post it where it will continue to catch our bartender’s eyes and thus,


The seemingly ancient regulars begin arriving. None of the regulars made a reservation



Every reservation includes a note: window table requested.

Specters at a feast, watching the separate feast of the youngest generation,

through our looking glass.

The tables have been rearranged. The layout of the floor altered to allow more tables to be in front of the huge frame windows.

I intuit how unwelcomely our regulars perceive this change.

Understand the regulars eat every night here and have done so for over a decade.

Well, I suppose we’ll sit at this table. We want to watch the trick or treaters.: they huff, already walking towards the desired table.

In anticipation of this, i have placed placards on tables reserved for those who called ahead.

It bears their name and time of arrival.

I fear this one is reserved. I can seat you here or here. Anywhere there is no placard.

But, we never call ahead: they protest.

A lot of people did: I say.

I think: how do you not know what to expect tonight? You have been eating here for decades.

None of the reservations do I recognize.

The aura of the restaurant becomes maroon instead of its usual sunset orange.

{I hear a whisper say: tulpa.

I whisper: heyoka reads, tulpa.}

An exasperated, decorous but uncostumed, regular flags me over.

She and her companion dine with a couple I have not seen before.

[Trans. They planned to impress their friends here, this evening.]

She has been painstakingly doing panto. Craning her neck, trying desperately to espy the youngbloods in the street.

Yes, Misses ______?: I say.

I don’t know any of these people you have given the good tables to. All these people made reservations?: she accuses.

Yup. They all did. And, they all specified they prefer a window seat. You know, I don’t recognize any of them either, yet something led them here. Kind of magical, huh?

If those people leave, can we move to their table?: she responds.

Perhaps.: I allude, walking away.

These reservations are specters of the feast of the specters at the feast of future ghosts.

To them, i am tonight’s hostess.

Like them, I remember I have died before, will die again, and

I forget to remember it.

I will wake up.

I will fall asleep.

I will sleepwalk.

I will lucid dream.

I will remember to not forget that I am going to fail to remember

Again and again.

In delicious, concentric, Socratic circles,

Ever issuing out to the ether.


Dream of cloaks.

Í think í awake to the feeling of faint fingertips tracing my stermum.

Í jolt and suddenly say: í want to write for you.

He says: you do that already, yes?

Yes, but í mean to say í want to write to you.: í say

You are not conscious, yet, aurora. Slow down.

Let me trace your collarbone and the ligaments that pronounce from your neck. Let me delicately pinch that sweet Adam’s apple in your throat.: í say.

He says: Anything to stop you fidgeting with your fingertips.

That’s why í keep this cord wrapped, seven times, around my left wrist. Í play with knotting it.

He says: I know knots. I also know that you loosely bind your wrists together with it when you sleep.

Sometimes, because í am curious and desirous of that which no-one has done to me.

He says: I know.

He asks: did you dream last night?


Tell me the story you saw…

Í am in a pub by the shore. Minimal decoration. A few pithy sayings adorn the walls. The wood of the floor and the glass installation behind the bar is the crowning aesthetic detail. There is the one drunk guy. The level of toleration he receives suggests he is a bar fixture, as well.

There are, perhaps, seven tables total, yet there are multiple hostesses. They sit at a service area by the front window, giggling in hushed voices and rolling silverware into cheap, paper napkins. Bohemian Rhapsody plays.

Alone and a’sat at the bar’s counter drop, í drink my beer too quickly.

It gives me goosebumps and a head rush.

The chandelier is double-sided and made of eighty, clear, glass beer bottles with candles burning inside. Í count them up and think: í must be back in Electri-city, where there is only candle light.

It is nearly charming, but the staff is in their own world.

Bad service kills the ambience.

Í see eight people sat around a large rectangular table.

That’s my group: í think.

Í rise and find my way into the only unoccupied chair.

As í lower myself into the chair, a courier enters the pub. Wearing a solid black cloak; the hood pulled so far overhead, no face or form is visible.

The courier strides to me and hands me a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.

Í take it.

No words.

The courier turns and walks out the door.

Open it: urges my table mates.

Í do. Inside is a hooded robe. The colo(u)r of burnt sienna. There are stars and slivers of new moons in col(u)ors nearly unnoticeable.

The others at the table clap and cheer, like this is important. Like í have earned it, somehow.

Like they already knew and had planned this as a celebration.

Í leap to my feet, having, still, spoken no words.

Í run out the door. Í look wildly up and down the street.

Who was the courier? Í must know.

This is no time for celebration, this is another moment of testing.

Í feel my heart pound.

Í want to be scared but there is no time; so, í imagine

Í am a beast, a wild animal.

A junkyard bitch set to strike and kill.

And, the adrenaline becomes ichor and not poison.

Then, í woke up to sensing your fingers on my sternum: í tell Him.


Joni Mitchell-Moon at the Window (1998)

No rights: homage to a song worth sharing.

About the ghosts.

I wrote a lot today.

You are good at what you do.: Æ says.

What do I do good?: I ask.

Being yourself: is the reply.

Thank you kindly. I’m the best at being me. Nobody does me better: I giggle.

Ghosts of stories yet to be born.



A deep Joni cut.


/”It takes cheerful resignation
Heart and humility
That’s all it takes,”
A cheerful person told me
Nobody’s harder on me than me
How could they be
And, nobody’s harder on you than you

Betsy’s blue

She says “Tell me something good!”
You know I’d help her out if I only could
Oh, but sometimes the light
Can be so hard to find
At least the moon at the window,
The thieves left that behind

People don’t know how to love

They taste it and toss it
Turn it off and on
Like a bathtub faucet
Oh sometimes the light
Can be so hard to find
At least the moon at the window,
The thieves left that behind

I wish her heart

I know these battles
Deep in the dark
When the spooks of memories rattle
Ghosts of the future
Phantoms of the past

At least the moon at the window,
The thieves left that behind
Is it possible to learn
How to care and yet not care
Since love has two faces
Hope and despair
And pleasure always turns to fear
I find
At least the moon at the window
The thieves left that behind
At least they left the moon
Behind the blind

Moon at the window/


Off-the-cuff Choreography

A bath drawn to

to draw your words.

To soak your bones and remind your greyhound mind

to unwind.

Put the pen and paper away. I have nothing to say: he says.

Excellent. Í don’t wish to take dictation, then.

Ballet slippers donned and satin ribbons laced up my calves.

A custom pair. A parting gift from the corps

following a fall that took my left ankle’s ability to regularly dance en pointe.

There is no visible trace of the bone’s weakness, but I sometimes feel it,


An act now saved for special occasions, and certainly not slick floors of bathing rooms.

But, I can still stand on my toes all day,

A white, gauzey skirt, flowing but slitted, and worn, only at home.

Black, satin camisole, containing little but fully covering.

A pinched waist.

There are valid reasons for dressing the part.

He says: Do your barre work in here. Can you extend each leg to the towel rack?

Yes, my extension is good but my turn-out requires me to warm up. Í’ll start with the countertop.

Familiar feeling of tendons pulling. Straining until a’loose.

Initially struggling to stay tight, they go loose like fretted guitar strings after many plucks.

Í arch my back and bend my spine backwards. It releases its tension more easily.

My arms move slowly like a lava flow.

Í warm my muscles.

Í imagine the heat your body feels, in the still hot bath water.

Í envision the expansion of your blood vessels and the increased flow of your bloodstream,


The pulsing that your body sensates through the process of acclimating.

Í feel it.

It limbers me.

Í feel your eyes.

Í pretend not to but í delight in knowing that you know that í know that í am

under observation.

The awareness of this suddenly envelopes my attention and í slip from my posture,

but í do not fall.

Oops. Giggle.

Tell me, again, your mythos of Svetlana Zakharova and Robert Bolle.

Í love it when you have me repeat myself.

Well, she is from the Balanchine school, where every movement is lavish and ornate, pronounced and, often, painfully slow. Most male dancers get cast as choreographical fillers. They dance in support of a prima or a principal or a soloist, keeping her held in spotlights in impossible postures. This is changing, though. Bolle was the best at this. But, when he dances with Svetlana, she needed no outside support. She would hold her own positions while he knelt and/or took the spotlight. Her tenacity, strength, gave him a chance to both shine and rest. A chance to breathe. You know í found some of my prostrations from her La Bayadère variation.

He says: I know. The way you wrap your arm about your crown to cup your opposite cheek

My eyes have gone wide.

Í am loose now.

You look ready: he says.

Í know the perfect album: í say, flitting away.

From the other room, í drop the diamond tip to spinning vinyl.


Watch this: í say.

As the music flows.

My eyes remain open but í am not seeing.

Í feel as if becoming music in motion.

Í snake, í extend. Pronounce the flare of hips.

Í make strange signs with my fingers.

Í shift in this solo performance for the audience of the one.

His neck bends back and rests on the tub’s edge, eyes narrowing.

He begins speaking words as they come

to his mind.

There is no need to write these.

He says: I like how you begin with the restraint of ballet proper before losing yourself into more, less classical, feral movements.

Í whisper: ballet is a foundation of five simple positions from which infinite variations may be culled; but, dance is second to second and cannot be predicted, only experienced. It is undomesticated, improvised, choreography at heart.



The silence slaps the sweet smile from my face.

Two dimples disappear and my eyes go wide and watery like reflecting pools.

It was expected, knowing the routine.

Like my cheekbones slipping softly against your inner thighs.

I return of my own volition.

I am into repetition. Can ya tell?

A cassette played and then rewound, to be as the stabilizing soundscape to enhance feeling and gift a smile,

but cared for and never unspooled.

After doing the same action, ten times,

the action becomes anew,

because we extend the potential through practice.

Carrying wood.


Not new, but still true. Reposted

Like an aged letter.

I am soft today.

Wide-eyed in hope and a hint of previous hurt.

An open vessel never being vacuous.

I embrace it,

whispering in a whimper: hey, let me in.

A Tea Party for your sobering Psychopomp.

Vamp for me, wild thing.

I will howl out the accompaniment to your movements.

The accompaniment as the autumnal ewe fades away,

but before the howling winds of this

fall remove all the leaves from your limbs

And leave You exposed to face the winter



pendulous periodicity

Locals always laugh at the outfits of outsiders.

Before this autumnal fall,

í, in summer, remember when the sun would not fully go down until the double penetration of digits of the timely hour:

ten o’clock

eleven o’clock.

The midnight sun.

Mooning and fully waxed, then too soonly waning;

like how the free market prefers prefit,

favoring beholden over that which is bespoke and


Hot-air ballons.

so tightly wound, we no longer remember which is the right side of the road

down which to drive.

What of those howling, “sincerity is my only credential?”?

Those who live where the gravity is strange?

Where it pulls at such acutely obtuse angles?

Like shadows of the diabolicals we call hills and valleys.

Leaning forward whilst reaching back in this pendulous periodicity of the multiform streams.


Dynamic current/s.


The diabolical breathwork of



Contract and release.

Diaphragm to breast.

Skin pulling tight enough to count ribs, like keys on a piano.

Play them as a xylophone to calm my frenetic feral fury.

It is sea shanty time at Maple Hollow.

Come to gather ’round, salty sea dog.

Exhibition of the blushing provocateur,

an energetic howling, sweet sea monster wailing for you,

swimming through kelp forests of her own hair.

Hide and seek.



Demure despite (but, never in spite) appearances.

Let me energize that ennui into

Dynamic current/s.La femme d’argent.


Chic Tweetz (Audio) – Desert Sessions Vol. 12

No rights: homage

to a song I cannot get enough.

Giggling my ass off since early this morning.

A lovely, silly diversion that lightens my mood.

Has a sort of Ian Dury and the Blockheads feel.

This album was released today.

Josh Homme has a disposition that attracts great talent.

From Queens of the Stone Age to Them Crooked Vultures (with John Paul Jones).

From Dave Grohl and Trent Reznor.

And, Iggy Pop.

And, now, Matt Berry.



Mantle above hearth.

The sun hits that magic hour in its descent.

Making the black wrought iron scaffolding of the ongoing, neighboring construction appear alive and bioluminescent.

A shiny male hummingbird buzzes about my feeder.

He sounds like how carpenter ants work.

A single strand of spider web, disconnected from

save one of its points of anchorage, bandies about in the breeze like a tethered up sail boat does overnight, with its rigged sails furled tight like sleeping’s closed eyes.

The sun catches the gossamer strand in line segments up to but not including

its full length.

I smell someone has lighted a fire in their hearth for the first time in a long time.

My nostrils taste stale smoke.

Shall I gather the kindling while you carry the firewood?

My chimney flue prepared, opened after a recent clean.

Strike a match to it so I may wrap around, in the fire light,

like a little, infinite möbius








Questioning statements.

The breeze returns. Curt blasts whitecapping the water of the Sound.

My eyes return to your forearms.

Do you think sailors ever smoked to gauge the wind’s direction?: I ask.

There would be other, better ways, I imagine: he says.

But, any so physically and painfully pleasing?: I challenge.

Hear the sound of my hard swallow

after hearing you

say: no you cannot.

The yield of yielding when facing the inexorable other.

The difference between unmerciful and

mercilessly defines itself now,

Like the vulnerability of engaging in the outrageous.

Enraged does not imply rage any more than ‘engorged’ does not always imply an

Empurpled structure.

Shutter speeds of my apperature struggle to clearly capture the inside vantage point.

This lurid fecundity from your reinvigoration,

arches my spine into a gateway.

A point of entry becomes created.

Tell me something good.: he says,

as an outreach.

I say: I chop vegetables and fruits as meditation. Slowly, precisely. I pour my attention and love into the act until it feels as though they butcher themselves. Nourishing before ingesting for nourishment.

Mastery through repetition of action. I heard you swallow hard again, you know.: he replies.

My flow of thoughts continues to stream out from between my lips.

I feel my solar plexus and diaphragm release and tighten as my tongue and mouth shape the exhalations into

spoken sentences, saying:

the vivisection of a tomato is proof of magic and, isn’t it curious that oranges grow on trees whether you have a personal savior or not. I am not religious but I see the miraculous in much of the mundane. A habit can habituate into passé routine without proper inspection or

it may alchemicalize, under our will, into ritual.

Ssshhh. Your mind is always restless, do you think?: he quietly interrupts.

I think I feel a strange pleasure at you asking questions to which you already know the answer. And, yes my mind is. It takes a great deal of restraint on my part, to make it still.: I say.

Proper restraint is how we unleash ourselves and run wild.: says his voice.

The upward inflection on his final word gave the appearance of sounding like a question, even though

it is a statement.


Forward from the background

Compound the difference between want & need


the difference between need and neediness.

The equation yields an instrumental derivative that is also

an instructive integral,

Because the positive and negative space of herringbone (trans. houndstooth) patterns cannot be distinguished, the resulting visual is

like liquid words

wherein you may read yourself as the narrator or the audience.

Delicious dichotomy of the impeccably complementary.


R.E.M. – Orange Crush (Official Music Video)

No rights: homage to a song that found its way into my mind this morning.

Howl great is the video? V. great. Contextual.

While most artists at this time where pumping out vacuous visuals of vamping lip synced monkies dancing around, pretending to be performing, R.E.M. did this.

A good interview.


The fall of a trip.

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

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

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

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

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

not a penny,

not a penny, weighed more/

A pendulous arm with a weighted ball

pivots about the point of suspension.

Ticking out time in mono sound.

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

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

to see those recognizing

kindness is kin of open-mindedness.

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

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

/and, I can feel it in the silence…/

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

An emptied vessel is not necessarily vacuous; but, to

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

Without trying,


a cistern is what it is:

Bits of sand transmuted into glass blown

to be exploded and then recapitulated.

Sea glass is simply sandy trash recycled.

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

with a spray painted perimeter to warn that

you fall at your own sweet risk.


Efficient Efficacy

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

I feel a hand lightly touch my shoulder.

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

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

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

Not me.: I say.

So your precious words betrayed you?: he asks.

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

So, I am effective?: he teases.

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

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


A sound not a bay.

I am the subtle magnetic force trying to kindly shift

your aged space and the immediacy of your moments.

Or, is that you?

Pulls of the polarized enliven me.

Maybe I am your current, optimal conditions,

an ideal, unidyll ether enabling materialization.

I see from the lonely vacuum without feeling alone.

Electric light and natural radiance.

A backlit screen,

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

Lidar and black holes howling in polite algorithmic rhythm.

The Oxford comma not being used within

sentences always running-on.

A’stood between two pillars of trees

with bark gnarled from time,

coarse like hands that can carry wood and graphite,

my writing flows

forward and backward.

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

I see success is your proof; and, it

arouses need to draw your reaction.

Your attention.

So when you ask: Do you see?

I respond: I know.

Because I want to hear

You ask me: you know what, exactly?

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

I can see you enter a hypothetical room and

stand still.

Hell knows what I’d be doing, but

I know

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

To read you, without words,

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

Feeling as a fool tossing a coin with the Fates.

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

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

A coattailer or a partner in crime.

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

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

yet, they reduce to simple vibrations and shudders.

I live by a body of water

that is a sound oft confused for a bay.

But, my bays sound

like a whispered suggestion:

Come and bathe with me, Archimedes.


Monolith-Fly Golden Eagle

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

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

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

It reminds me of two words:

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

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

/Lightly as we go.

I got ya hand inside my…

And where it ends nobody knows/

/So tell me what I’m supposed

To do

When all my thoughts get wrapped up in you/

/Was like an engine sucking steam

Just letting it slide/

/Just like your smile is so alive.

A bow and arrow shot you…/

/…coming unglued/

\Ahhhhhh let it go!/


Verba Eclipsata

The ascent of a scent,

warm and humid like southern nights.

A recollection of something never had yet still known,

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure about that?”

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

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

thereby was a scythe observed

being cleaned

off in a river of cortisol,

and, then, resheathed into the odd, wrappings

made of hide.

The harmony of the discord between a




nervous system that is only given rest through

relentless fight or flight.

The capture and surrender of two individual, respective attentions.

Things contained and separated by encasings of skin.

Verba Eclipsata Intende A Dinspir.


Going Native

Taut red skin

Mercury droplets shifting, smearing.

The scent of the vanilla extract.

A compromise made in offering to being uncompromising,

to be compromised.

Reclamation of a piece of land left to lie fallow

after slash and burn farming.

Going native is just realizing your root.

A gift economy.


Pearl eats Oyster

The wex of supplication

The hex of self-sacrifice.

An aloe juice applied.

A smoked cigarette.

for supplication

of abasement.

Simplicity may dissolve into

a unity of psychic diversity.

Four bases produce

endless genotypes producing

infinite phenotypes.

The nature of nurture or lack thereof.

The art of service:

The difference between

I’m happy to help.


I’m glad to help.

Private humility

Laughing in the darkness of that which gifts you discomfort.

Where strangers are seldom seen.

I make circles. Keep up with my eyes.

Let it all be a tactical, tactile trick.

Kind brats of men move my pen.

See and know. Bathe with and clean.

Tepid water tested by toes while the ewer of a

faucet head drips.

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

Churlish obstinacy and insubordination.

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

A sheet hanging until until no longer wet.

The silence of the narcissist to the empath.

The empathic, giggling punishment of a narcissist.

A fretted string strung too tightly,

coiled to snap like a cobra.

A mouse that

turns out

to be a mongoose.

The extension of legs when moving from flat footed

to en pointe.

A swan taking flight.

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

The thrill and repulsion of an irregular pearl who consumes

and swallows the oyster muscle.



Sweeping up

Sweep me off my feet.:he said.

This was different.

The difference between breathless and breathlessness.

I could set fruit on you.

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

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

Color swirls and wave patterns that

you could not

visually perceive yet

you still see

And, they made hummin’ noises.

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

I just got off a great yawn of a breath.

Imagine the inconceivable: you say.

Well,: I say: gladly, assuming you recognize

you have requested i prove gödel’s sentence g

[trans. The very constructs of the query are technically

impossible to prove by the rules

enlivening the question as reasonable to me.]

I look up and

my neck cranes over my left shoulder,

to shudder and squint into the sun.

The moon will be in its place soon enough.


Unidyll Cads

Some of us are born out of synch with time

, revealing shady shadows


making weird and wet.

Even now the power lines can be seen as

demarcators between sky and Sound

, the lie and the allusion of a false horizon.

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

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

Like how I could not see the mountains to my left

, for a solid month. And

, upon, seeing them

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

The crows take their nuts

, chucked down to the Pavement below.

The chickadees take and taste everything fearlessly.

The Stellars’ Jays need lots of attention

, carrying boomboxes slung over their left wing

, blaring The Boys are Back in Town.

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

The hummingbirds

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

And a staccato strikes repeatedly. In time

, I take action.

My left hand flips an ancient

, anchor Roman coin.

(No calling heads or tails

, as there is simply Janus).


, twirling woosh

, palm-slap catch.

My right hand plays with a switchblade knife.


Balanced upon the the knuckles

, then


Balanced upon the underside of the knuckles

, my palm open skyward.

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

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

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

As I fall back awake from sleep.

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

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

The Voice of Knowledge wrote the nagual.

Shadowboxers fighting in the sunshine are oft under



Parçigal bemoans

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

desperately wanted people

to believe he was older than he was.

Why had the Maistre gone to Wilhelmsbad to sow dissension

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

Through sheer passion and devoted imagination,

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

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

and wanting posturing as powerful loudness.

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

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

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

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

I show you what I see of your divine effulgence.

Your head bursts with creation.

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

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

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

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

ecstasy of passion coupling with

romance, attenuates our attunement to become love’s incubator

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

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

entomb itself.
leave the incubator to entomb itself.

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

is taken in as prayer.

But my Mastery of Ecstasy flows from your oral obeisance,

dearheart. Your enjoyment and desire to

bury your face and lap and eat.

Watch me. Until my eyes narrow,

my smile becomes a pout of lips, my voice goes

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

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

You are branded, but I am not.

No mark torched my skin and

I usher you to the Maverick underground which

magically exists above ground.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your gaze drops as your head lowers.

Bit of a grin gives you away.

Lovely tough guy eh?


Parçigal Waxes for Æ

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

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

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

Then, I saw myself.

A native alien in this strange land,

but four hundred years before now.

An imposter amongst the indigenous.

A civilized lady gone native.

A warrior savage with hunters who fall with her.

And, now, I see that

the Sound is water and sky together.

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

And, now, dearheart, night became itself.

The moon waxes nearly full,

jumping from one side of the street to the other,

as I snake around two city blocks. And,

even clearer now does the tower

with twenty seven windows crumble before mine eyes.

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

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

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

But, see,

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


Confluence of a hostess.

After days of varying sobriquets

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

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

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

Everyday, she grasps my face between her palms,

holding my cheeks to keep my head still.


She pushes her face inches from mine

and stares into my eyes.

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

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

before proceeding.

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

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

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

A man arrives.

Single diners can be sensitive.

Especially when a restaurant hostess says: just one today.

So, I do not say this.

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

He takes my hand as he removes his sunglasses.

He speaks with an accent I cannot identify.

I hear him say: I’d like a date.

Pardon?: I ask. Hand still in his.

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

I smile.

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

hand still held by his.

There is one elder lady at the bar.

He sits five seats away from her.

She collects her things and leaves.

I think nothing of it.

“I love you,” server J. says.

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

You made the racist leave: she says.

Huh?: I am confused.

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

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

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

I get cut when the rush dies.

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

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

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

We meet so many people.: she says.

I smile.

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

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

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

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

She grins.

I exit and feel energy coursing.


Dream of a Watery Cavern

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

I dreamt I lived underwater, there,

in a little house on the floor of

the Sound,

it was filled with water.

It rained heavy droplets of oxygen,

pattering on the tin roof.

I drop my pen, it slowly floats downwards.

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

Your eyes look up at mine with pride.

I see you shiver.

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

I wrap my legs around you, and

slide my thighs and calves against yours,

rubbing limbs like how crickets sing,

until you are warm.

Satisfied sighs bubble from your lips.

You keep shivering well after becoming warm.



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

From the perspective of the Pendulum’s pivot point

From which we are all hanged.

So, I pace out a one-room prowl.

Cursed and blessed our we,

tethered by our high potential of permittivity?

They shalt not treat us unkindly,

but, we may ache further(,)


These indirect aspersions haunt my southern plane,

remaining innominate.

I see you,

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

An enflamed emanation of emotion.

A diesel engine backfiring.

A vice-president shooting his friend in the face.

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

A happy death.

A shadow.

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


Push it along.


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

⊙The difference between flowing from and flowing into?

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

conducts the sounds that the speaker/s curate.

⊙A feedback loop within an open system.

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

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

~Especially when

you have been as long as Æ has been.

⊙Your stasis is my equilibrium.

~I am bespoke you are not beholden.

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

⊙ I think you are too short to push it.

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

⊙I think you talk too much.

~ Then shut me up. You know howl.



Ariadne Howls to Æ

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

When did the slipped, sleeping pill take æffect?

Am I woke or lucid dreaming

Or sleep walking?

I came

from whence rhythm first flowed and then flew.

I return twice slain.

Yet, still

I return,

by choice,

hunting on my tip toes.


Next Thing You Know…

No music rights: just homage to a soundtrackscape.

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

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

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


a.m. texts go out.

1. The manager working.

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

I include exactly zero emoti-cons.

2. The potential covers.

I say: I’m sick. Host this morning?

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

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

Still and grey.

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

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

My inhaler: I love calling it.

/Cancer for the cure/?

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

So I put on an album called electro shock blues.

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

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

/well, hee hee hee hee/

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

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

It’s good to have reasons to persevere and


I say and i mean.

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

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

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

Back home.

Bare beneath a grey robe.

Leg warmers over calves and most of my feet.

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

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

Back on the patio.

The wind chops and dices the waters of

the Sound

into tiny, white-capped waves.

Little peaks of liquid mountains.



/I can hear you/

/I was…/

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

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

I giggle.


Æ fusses at Parçigal

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

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

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

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

~Please do.

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

As life

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

~Jesus fucking christ…

⊙Everytime with this one?: this cunt giggles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Collected Strands

Restless a.m.


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

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Robins bobbling around for worms.

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

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

I suppose it is mine.

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

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

Like little feathers lost only to be reassembled into

a new configuration.

A merkin for the metal.


Macha – Between Stranded Sonars

No rights: homage.

From the album See It Another Way.

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

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

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

Tommy Tutone.


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

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

My mind moves quickly.

I play the game I love:

What is the perfect song right now?

Macha. First track from the self-titled album?

No. That was the perfect song two years.

Do better. Dig deeper.

Last track. Same band. Album afore mentioned.

I walk and smoke tobacco leaf. To make sure.

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

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


The Undercutters: A Banana Nut Muffin Introduction.

“You look ridulous.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Per se.”

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

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

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

“Like a prologue?”

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

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

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

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

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

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


The Undercutters: Prologue

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

“Too damn incredible, eh?”

“Am I working too hard?”

“Harder than most.”

“Then have I diminished my own returns?”


“I have a business proposal: The Undercutters.”

“Go on.”

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


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