Translations for the Deaf.

Douglas Hofstadter wrote about Googel translate not too long ago.

As an American, foreign languages are not the priority of inner city schools, at least not the one I attended. Not, their fault either.

I failed Kiswahili enough times, in college, to blow the socks off of any Kenyan who I meet stateside.

Ninasema Casey.

No one speaks any “Swahili” here. Not enough to even make the general populace know the language is factually called Kiswahili.

Bless you, Bibi Jane. And, bless you end of term oral examiner.

Can I write my responses to your oral questions?: I asked.

No.: she responds.

Shit: I think.

I’ve worked in enough restaurants to learn functional Spanish and Kiswahili.

(A surprising number of Kenyan immigrants in B’ham, AL. Magic City

We got a Nemo walking in: Robert would call to his kitchen, at Tavern on the Summit, whenever a catch of the day ticket came through. Howlarious.

But fish don’t walk, Robert: I’d always say

[After dinner rush, in the alley, smoking a cig.

Me: I thought “fish” was “samaki” in Kiswahili.

Robert: No, dummy. Nemo, like the movie.



I listened to this show, just now.

A few phrases in foreign languages hooked my attention.

I connect to Catalan, Frisian, and Corsican.

Don’t ask why, because I don’t justly know.

I love playing with Translate ever since the Hofstadter article.

But, I don’t have friends like his, to give feedback on the intimacies of Translate’s inadequacies.

On a cru que les données allaient nous libérer: appears in type face on the screen behind the band.

I make haste to Translate.

To triangulate my linguistic location.

If the phrase is in Frisian it translates to: On a cru que les données allaient nous libérer.

It translates to itself.

If the phrase is in either French or Corsican it translates to: it was believed that the data would free us.

In Corsican, the same spellings translate to: where it’s raw than the others were waiting for release again.

Hot and beautiful. Both.

Désormais ton monde est ainsi fait: appears in type face on the screen behind the band.

I make haste to Translate.

To triangulate my linguistic location.

If the phrase is in Frisian it translates to: this is a ton of things to do.

If the phrase is in French it translates to: now your world is so made.



A completed incomplete pass.

After the morning shift, I stop by a bar.

Watching the last ten minutes of an American football game, the crowd here breaks into applause and hoots for the local team.

For the images on t.v.
(For each other.)

“We look good.”

We? No, dear, “they”. They are not you.

Five minutes later the crowd breaks into “boo”, “oh no”, “why,” along with some judgements and criticisms.

“They should have…”

Oh, it is “they” not “we” now, huh?

The 12th man is always the loudest?

A short completed pass results in the “other” team’s receiver getting gobsmacked by a defender

“They lit him up” I offer.
I like lit people.

“I am gonna need you to get a little more excited about this game,” the fellow aside me at the bar jokes.

Despite being kind, I am not daft.

I can sense patronizing intent from miles away.

“And, Ima need you to not tell me how to handle my business” I smile. Teasing him.

I will poke the bear to see his response.

He has no clue how to respond. He does not realize I am giving him the business.


Kenickie – Can I Take You To The Cinema? (Peel Session)

No rights: homage.

/Your eyes, they follow me…too pale to see.

[One, two, three, four]

Can I take you to the ice rink? I don’t care, if you can’t skate…

To get you out of those wet clothes.

…I won’t lace your…

Can I take you to the cinema?:[Margot]

(Can I take you home?)


Almost a double ewe.

The British invasion occured today, at the restaurant.
A delightful change of clientele in town for Birdfest.
Aside from the accent, the nearly, overly polite manners gave them away.
Along with the ability to smile and make kindly eye contact despite not having had their morning caffeine.
Who cares if they mean it.
Such civility for the sake of simple decency resonates with my Southern background. The South has little else to offer, currently. Hence, my leaving a few years ago.

(Serving people who have arrived to have their first cuppa in our dining room is always an intimate moment of raw honesty. Coffee, tea, or booze).

They enjoy my accent as much as I enjoy their’s. They laugh when I say ‘y’all’.”

I say it a lot. Habituated.

“Most practical pronoun in American English. Much better than ‘you all/guys’,” I tease.

Server P over hears this.
S/he snags me by my shoulder and, laughing, tells me, “I like ‘y’all’ as much as I prefer ‘they/them’!”

It makes me giggle. It makes me feel good to hear this.

Until today, coffee out ordered tea.
Eight to one.
We run out of tea pots to distribute, for the first time ever.

I convert our decaf urn to a simple pot of hot water, to meet the refill demands.


A solo diner arrives.
I wave as I approach from the rear of the dining room, so he knows he has been espied and will be assisted as fast as my heels can click my steps toward him

“Oh gee, hi there. How are you? It is just me, I am afraid,” he says to the hostess (me) before she (me) has even greeted him.

I break into my you-are-dear-to-me smile, immediately.

He was not British, though he held the manners and demeanor.
He had me in age by at least one and a half decades.
Long lovely fingers, nearly sky eyes but not quite.
Like a mockingbird’s.
Like a seagull’s call, cackling at me, because I kept wanting to mistake him for someone else.
We swap a good moment.

He looks a bit bewildered when I tell him I can seat him at a table or he may sit at the bar.
I have put him on the spot and he does not know which he prefers. It makes him genuinely squirm a bit.

Most American folk are most happy to be asked for their opinion. People love to let you know that they think “this” about “that.”

“Tell you what, our best server is bartending today. You should enjoy her service. Let’s go the bar.”

He blushes, nods; and, again,
I want to mistake him for someone else.

I lead him to
seat 35, specifically.

I watch him as I work, this sweet, little, mockingbird.
He watches me working, when he thinks I am not looking, but my job here is to always be looking.
I watch him try to subtlety watch me.
I avert my gaze, at times.

Eventually, I can no longer refrain.
I walk over to him and say, “I just want you to know you have such beautiful eyes. Exceptional.”

He gives me a look of shock and discombobulated confusion.

I touch my palm to his shoulder and walk away.

‘Exceptional’ because he recalls someone shamefully impeccable.


R.E.M. (not Tool) – Undertow (Live in Chicago / 1995 Monster Tour)

No rights: homage.

Breathe, wild thing.

That’s all you need do.

Your heart will keep beating and your eyes will keep blinking.

Or else, they won’t.

Then it will truly be someone else’s problem.

And, even then, will you breathe easily.

\…Brother, can you see those birds? They don’t look to heaven
But they don’t need religion, they can see
They go down to the water, drink down on the water
Fly up off the water, leave them be…

…You know I am tired, cold and bony tired
Nothing’s going to save me, I can see
I can’t say I’m fearful, I can’t say I’m not afraid
But I am not resisting, I can see
Now, I don’t need a heaven, and I don’t need religion
I am in the place where I should be
I am breathing water, I am breathing water
You know a body’s got to breathe…
I’m drowning me
(Breathing ourselves)
I’m drowning me
(Breathing ourselves)

Oh, k/no/w.

I’ve said too much.

I set it up.

I think that I saw you laughing (in the dark, Albinus).

While I played a game of Patience

In the corner.

Consider this:

Welcome to the occupation.


Viynl Track Intro

I notice

a bonfire,

(alit via a couple of cotton balls, a lighter, and a tube of

lip balm)

burning high,

(especially when being properly blown into)

sounds a lot like a needle, with

a diamond tip,

sliding around and around,

a viynl record’s groove.


Right before the song starts.


It is like that?

Because we are perceivers, that is why?

There is only causation because we create it?

We created the Why?

We have an inborn propensity to see causation. We attribute our perceptions to external causes, but some perceptual representations are internal, for instance, optical illusions.

[Consciousness] is an evolved user-illusion, a system of virtual machines.

David C. Dennett. The Evolution of Minds: from bacteria to Bach. 2017

The voice of knowledge wants to know what everything means, to interpret everything that happens in our lives.

DM Ruiz & DJ Ruiz. 2010, p124 & 13. ISBN 978-1-878424-61-7


happy birthday, Monster.

I’m a bulldog for R.E.M being recognized for the amazing punks they are.

Southern Gothic Punk.

The album Monster turned 25 years old the other day.

What’s the Frequency, Kenneth?

/I was brain-dead, locked out, numb, not up to speed
I thought I’d pegged you an idiot’s dream…/

Yeah, /I never understood tha frequency (uh hum)/ either.

/Richard said, “Withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy”…

I couldn’t understand/

‘Til recently.

Well, the last time I saw Richard was Detroit in ’68.

And he told me: all romantics meet the same fate.

What’s the Frequency, Kenneth? Remaster. Given as a present to listeners,

along with a delightful, contextualization presented by original and remaster producer Scott Linn.

An awesome, quick interview.

He wanted “to take another crack at it.”

I dig both.

Re: Strange Currencies

David Foster Wallace really dug it during one particular book tour.

Read all about from the words of (a very thoughtful) other.

I.e. read it in many fewer words than DFW would have described it in, with hardly any footnotes. Giggle.

This particular anecdote is my favorite from the entire book.

/I don’t know why you’re mean to me./

/The fool might be my middle name./

/Take you there and make you mine./

/These words will be mine./

/I tripped and fell./

/I wanna feel it now./

/You know with love comes strange currencies; and here is my appeal:

I need a chance. A second chance. A third chance. A fourth chance…

[Insert magical, hard to decipher words here]

To catch myself and make it real./

Everything and more.


I howled last night while dreaming!

Highly excited about this dreaming experience.

Regular readers (thank you!) probably have noticed howl much I dig using [howl] in my writing. I say it in my daily life as well. I bellow it, in silence, at night. (You have to be quiet it the flat where I stay, see.)

I have lucid dreamed since being a young child. I realize I am dreaming quite quickly in the dream state.

Sometimes this realization empowers me to change the dream consciously. Sometimes, I realize I am dreaming but do not realize I may be able to alter the dream state. (But, howl. Why change a new experience for what you assume would be better? The idea does not occur unless I feel real suffering.)

Many times, dreams feel like another plane of reality upon which I have landed, where, the best I can do, upon realizing I am dreaming, is to choose to try to wake myself up.

I am overly familiar with the sensation of sleep paralysis. Of becoming mentally conscious before being able to move my body. It is a weird feeling, but I have never felt the terror others describe when experiencing the sensation. No aliens. No demons. Just a simple inconvenience.

“Oh, howl. I gotta sit here and think, ‘wiggle your big toe. wiggle your big toe,’ ” for what seems like an eternity.

Eventually, my big toe actually wiggles.

Enough context.

Here is the dream.

I stand at the top of several flights of stairs.

Wooden floors.

An old, antebellum-style home.

Southern gothic.

Crown molding with runners.

There are no lights and

“It was a rainy night.”

A strike of lightning flashes. I see a very, strangely, white child appear on a bench, below. Situated upon the first landing, one flight of stairs, below.

Right before the stairs cut around to the next segment of their spiral.

He looks up, directly at me.

His eyes go wide.

Yawning like mouths.

Too wide.

I do not want to be here. It hurts more than it needs to.

Instead of thinking: wiggle your big toe,

I say, softly,: howl.

I know that I am dreaming. I cannot change the dream.

I want to wake up.

I start bellowing out:


Lightning strikes again. It illuminates the same bench.

Now, there are ten more children, with yawning eyes, where there had previously been only one.

I howl myself awake.

Serendipitously, “howl” took over and took care of me.


Joni Mitchell – Help Me (1974)

No rights: homage to a lady champion.


All I Want (alpha) to

All I Want (beta) to

Carey back to

Conversation forward to

Wild Things Run Fast to

Smokin’ (Empty Try Another) back to the impeccable

The Last Time I Saw Richard and forward to

Coyote, and

.Blue Motel Room.

JM knows, knew, experienced a lifetime of love and lust

and was gracious enough to share.

She knew interesting folk, if you look into it.





I howl.

What is this extraneous energy I feel coursing inside me?

Whose is it?

I need some wing-wo/man to deal with the secrets

people impart to the queen of magnets.

You said: she get it from her momma?

I said: eff right off.

{Not you, doll.

You look fine.

I love your snarl.

You are fine;

yet, I, still, worry you run cold.

I don’t get cold.}

I don’t exist in orgiastic ecstasy.

I exist in an ecstasy of sincerity that happens to be orgiastic.

And, yes, it seems like an eternity.

{An eternity for which I am already too late.}


Last Open Table: Trade Secret Talk

Hey Aimme, I only have table 18 open…: I say, hostessing.

Oh, the four top, newly remodeled to a three?: she says, jokingly but without a smile.


{trans: yeah, that guy that joined table 19, without a word, stole the fourth chair from table 18 and has blocked access to table 18.

/Some men appear to need to take up an unnecessary amount of space. The cunt in me thinks they are the same men who feel compelled to drive large trucks with flat beds they will never use/

Additionally, the small dining room of this restaurant is filled with only tables for two and tables for four. This makes table 18 a hot commodity to a hostess. Especially, a patient, thoughtful one working Sunday morning.

But, push has come to shove. I won’t run a waitlist for him, this joiner, unless my server says she thinks they deserve it.}

/some posers know how to tip/


[She should have been cut an hour ago.

We should have dropped to two servers already; but the gal closing told her: yeah, we could cut you if I wanted to work harder.

I overheard this. It disappointed; but, there may be reasons such a statement is more reasonable than it may sound to my ears.]

Am I cleared by you to do my thing with this guy: I ask?

She nods immediately. It is louder than words to my ears.

I wonder if she noticed I kept seating her out of rotation, when a table in her section became available. I made sure she did not lose a table because of the joiner.

I don’t mention this.

A table for three arrives.

One moment: I say, wearing a smile, for them alone, that says “I’m gonna let you in on a trade secret.”

I take two steps over to table 19 and begin with

a big, genuine (“here goes no-thing”) smile

{In a way it is my job to do so. /You see, hosti are notoriously flighty. /otherwise they’d be servers, right?/ giggle}

I say: hey there!

[I do panto, panto, panto, then a little soft shoe.]

{Sic. Hosti trade secret}

The entire family at table 19 laughs.

Me and the five year old are now waltzing in a tiny square.

The people standing, waiting, start laughing,

for a different reason.

We should get out of your hair: says the dad at table 19.

{This family had finished eating over an hour ago. We call such folk [campers].}

Well, I do need to get access to that table over there, to seat these fine folk: I say, motioning to actual humans waiting.

Table 19 kindly slide themselves aside while making small talk with the family I am about to seat at table 18.

I am now waiting on the waiting list.

The best kind of professional inconvenience, to me.

Table 19 leaves.

Table 18 is seated.

Thank you: says Aimme.

I am immediately and acutely overwhelmed by deja-vu.

I grab Aimme by the arm and say: I just got the most intense deja-vu I’ve felt in years.

Because, I experience the feeling not infrequently.

Because, Aimme is empathic, too.

Because, it feels so strong it calls into question scales of magnitude.

She stops.

You must be in the right place: she says before springing back into action.

I dig the gravity of her spontaneous response.

Over her shoulder, she calls out: thank you for making sure I got as many tables as the others.


Formalizing metaphysical, higher-level education

Prof. Lewis: what is the meaning of life?

Carroll: to answer the question, “what is the meaning of life?” Is that right?

Chuck raises his hand and is acknowledged; he asks: will this be on the quiz?


Tight Lungs

I saw your raven’s claw hit the mark too squarely.

The clip of the talon’s clasp.

Snatching telephone cable as I watch three lightning storms

consume the sound.


I do not buy nonchalance

anymore than I am willing to eat soft words when

my eyes go hard.

Uncanny does not always equal canny.

Ariadne now knows how to lucid dream.

A hand poised, around a throat from which

“take my breath away” is whispered with

an accompanying half grin.


Physicsical Moaning

I smile: I am pleased you like the work, but not particularly interested in why.

You liked how it felt.

Instead, tell me about the last dream you had while sleeping?

Did you like how it made you feel?

I dreamt a record store called All ‘N Analog. It was no analogue.


What if it turned out that Paul Revere was just a Boy who cried Wolf?

Let’s incorporate.

A stem [becomes]

Repetition of action is

not repeating oneself;

though, care must be taken, of course, so you

don’t repeat yourself;

but, sometimes I love it when

you repeat yourself

(or ask me questions, the answers to which you believe you already know.)

Self-awareness of ignorance can nearly

overcome it.
Just don’t over-commit.

You will, still, scratch that itching nose with a finger, whether you are aware you do so,

or not.

You skate on a bead of water produced from the ice you melted as the blade of your skate skirted over it.

You have not cut the ice.

Boiling point is dependent upon the local atmospheric pressure, sweet thing.

Are you at an elevation of simple sea level?

The triple point of water.

A bathtub producing water, ice, and steAm from its faucet head.

All states

existing simultaneously; and, at the same time,

the ultraviolet exposure at my atmospheric level, fries, while I watched the sun rise

from my spectacular, secularly sacred space.


Flying in Formation

The dissonance of a consciousness can be caused by a lack of cultural consonance.

A flock of birds makes daily, coordinated flight shows,

training the little birds,

the ones I watched learn to fly over the last week.

The seven others will make tight, sharp barrell rolls,

reversing their momentum and direction.

The three babes miss the sign

and lose their flock.

I see the panic in the way their wings change their flapping.


The hip, bone game: Joe Tex – Show Me

No rights: homage to the coolest mafahcking front man that I have seen.

Seriously, he dances with his mic stand better than professional ballroom dancers move with their partner/s.

I love a man’s hip bone and I like to play:

The hipbone is connected to the….

/tell me that you gotta show me/

Forgive the pronouns if you can and dig the essence.

The beat tricks me. It seems a half count slower than my ears expect.

Tension of time.



Sonic Youth – Bull In The Heather (Official Video)

No rights: homage to a band I have saved like gelato for rainy days.

i.e. a band I knew I would dig based on who else I have and do dig, for the last fifteen years.

[Do you ever save bands like me?]

I listen to music like folks watch t.v.

Too much.

Parzival research leads me to new words, ideas, preferences, everyday.

This song I found about two weeks ago.

It suits the proclivity of all, across the spectrums, so far as I can tell from my limited perspective.

/tell me that you gotta show me/.

Does everyone not endear an invitation to agree or disagree, with impunity?


Pyre-amid Dream

I dreamt I was not quite a teenager.

I fed ducks in a park on a bench, with a Holocaust survivor. He was a mean man, and we got along well.

We did two things:

1. Feed ducks bread crumbs

2. Play a game.

Starting with A, we would name diseases/ailments in alphabetical order all the way to Z(ed).



Canker sores.

But, repeating was unacceptable.

Ex. Next round:


Boss eyes


He always won. I did not care.

He taught me what floaters were but could not tell me why sometimes I saw white ones, like the sprinkles of 4th of July sparklers, and sometimes I saw indigo ones.

He only saw the white ones.

But, before that,

in the same dream,

I dreamt that

the crest of your wave foams white in its churning.

My c-heeks go red.

Eyebrows arch up high as your brow furrows.

You slide softly and I run nails over your rib cage.

I kiss your nape.

But, before that,

in the same dream,

I dreamt that

I went on a walk.

My arm swung by my side like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

Wafting leaf smoke like incense in some ceremony.

I heard two staccato strikes against strings of an amplified guitar,

in time with my heels’ clicks.


Witness UK – Scars

No rights: homage to a song that re-entered my mind a week ago.

I heard it on a College Musical Journal monthly compilation compact disc when I was about 16.

It took me a solid seven days of racking my brain for lyrics.

They finally appeared this morning, over coffee, to my mind’s eye, enabling me to locate this song.



Labouring in Unkind Kindness.

A day I play like Cool Hand Luke.

If you labo(u)r, you probably do not have Labor Day off.

You are probably extra busy with your labor, in fact,

because of all those non-physical labourers who do have the day off.

No judgement, just observation derived from experience as someone who has been on both sides.

This is pure assumption: I can tell if you have ever worked on your feet, by how you interact with me when I am running a waiting list for the restaurant.

Open secret x: I am the hostess. I want you happy.

Open secret x’: you will not piss me off nor will I say anything unkind.

You know why?

Because, nothing pisses cranky people off more than someone who will not take your anger bait.

Killing you with kindness quite literally, you silly folks.

This is where the Tao of Cool Hand Luke comes into play.

You trying to put me down on the ground?

I just keeping getting back up with a giggle and a smile.

I have been through far worse.

I can do it until you are uncomfortable.

Every now and then, I can even make you smile.


I appear daft. Too stupid to realize I am being insulted.

I appear sugary sweet, but I speak in a calm, deep, resonant voice.

Just so you get a grip on the power of my gravity.

Unkindly kind.


The benefits of walking the block

I decide I need a tab, as they say.

American Spirit: ingredients: water and tobacco.

And some kind of paper, right?: I wonder.

The point is moot as I have already inhaled the combustion of fire to leaf.

Why are you smoking when all you really want is to be walking, Little Wing?: the No-One man asks me.

Because I need to clear my mind and grease the wheel. So, I can count to ten.
Prove it: he says.

One is zero and unity. All and everything. I learned this lesson in the woods, whilst listening too hard and asking too many questions.

Two is a perfect number. Mathematically speaking.

Three is a trinity manifested in a pyramide.

Four is a group that trains themselves in martial arts, as advertised.

Five refers to commercial success. Why?

Six makes me recall you, beast. And what it is to rotate this figure about the x-axis.

Seven reminds me of a trinity of 7’s, of Parzival.

Eight is hate not so far past.

Nine is three, six, and itself. This was the universe to Tesla.

And, ten? Ten is an order of magnitude. Ten makes sense for orientation.

Ten let’s me catch my breath: I concede to him.

I near the entrato the condo and a Vietnamese couple pulls aside me in their SUV.

How do we get to the coast?: the driver asks me through his cracked, automatic window.

Take a right at the stop sign, then, at the fountain on Main Street, take a right.

It is a roundabout.

Thank you. How lucky you are to live here: they say, after we struggle through language barriers and we repeat the same sentences between ourselves six times in total.

Yes, I am lucky to stay here: I reply.

I wave as they speed to the stop sign.

I told you that I needed to walk the block: I tell the No-One man.

He rolls his eyes.


A Watery Whale Wail

Have you ever stared, for a long time, at a large body of water?

More than an hour, or

until you can’t remember if the water is actually the sky and perhaps it is you that has been submerged in water the whole time?

Like maybe the horizon is a surfacing point where you and I breathe like whales?

Spouting our exhalations and thrilling the star ships above our surfaces.

It feels like when you sit in a room alone and repeat your own name aloud, for a minimum of three minutes.

Incepting yourself as you dialate time through your subjectI’ve experience.

Like purposefully esoteric, alternative spellings.


Dreamt of cold chilling

“I don’t get cold,” says the cool cat, “I just catch a chill.”

“Don’t steal my lines and then try to impress me with them,” I tease.

I point the left foot, of my crossed leg, from my seated position.

The bones structuring the top, flat part of my foot crackle themselves loose.

I make a strange, welp noise as I feel a tendon overstretch and then reassert itself back into place.

“You are so loud,” the cat moans, stepping over, circling and pawing my grounded, left foot. S/he finally lies down atop my foot.

A robust, white-tailed rabbit plods along in little plopping hops.

It has the legs of a frog.

The cat pounces at it. Claws pushing off me.

Sinking in. I do not yelp this time.

The rabbit reveals sparrow like wings and flies away.

A flying frog that mimics hares.

Reading my dreaming mind, the cat nods at me.

“This would make a a good illustrated children’s book.”

“Hey! Will you do that thing I like?” asks the cool cat.

I flip off the light switch and light a candle.

I make shadow puppets play and flit on the wall.

The cat tries to catch the intangible phantoms.


Slow Train (feat. Cate Le Bon) KEVIN MORBY

No rights: homage to a favorite in the house KC.

/I am barely on the ground/

/train/train/release the fire out of me/

/I don’t wanna burn/

/from the inside/

/n’ I dunno my name and I dunno my purpose/

/I just know my place on the slow train./

Slow train coming.

I’ll be ’round the bend, this backwoods gal, from Alabama.

Boy, without a doubt…

There’s a slow, slow train coming round the bend.

I nice dreamy song for those of you with a long weekend.

Or a burning heart.

I still remember

/Standin’ on the platform waiting for that train/

/Son, you are too late now/

/Train already came/

/waitin’ on a train that’s already come/




The flicker of a whisper appears in my ears.

I hiss a response, in kind.


Only one international phonetic alphabetic difference between:




In the English language.


voiced and voiceless.

Aspirated or otherwise.

My eyes narrow.

Simply evidence of closer observation and inspection,

no signal of disbelief.

Curiosity is the momentary suspension of belief.


Mettle of metal

being testing

in the seriousness of this series of silence.


Dream of rueing.

Your name is Ruin?: I ask.

No. RueAnne: she replies.

Why did you bring me back here?: I wonder.

I didn’t mean to: I hear her say.

She does not realize that she said this.

I nod anyway.

Certain geographies don’t agree with dream me.

This place rubs me wrong.


RueAnne is staring into nothing.

Her energy has been summoned.

She just lost herself again: I think.

A goat ambles by.


I checked.

Last night, I looked it up.

Chameləons are cold-blooded.

Also, kind.

Colorful transformers.

Octipi kindred spirits.

I cherish.

Suiting the moment and not making every moment suit them.

In the former, you may see much.

In the latter, not so much.

Authentic moment to instantly.


A strang hum

What do you see?: his mind asks mine silently.

My mind races.

Let my cycle through my four breaths, three times each: I say..

[Time passes in our empathic silence]

My eyes hold the other’s,

In the meantime,

Strange music plays with præter-natural lyrics.

Goosebumps envelop me.

I see energy: I say.

What does that mean?: he asks

Nothing that makes much sense when put into conscious explanations: I shrug, smiling.

Tao: he says.

Tao adjacent: I respond.


Dream of the Rocky Siege

I dreamt I was under siege last night.

Like Bell Rock.

But ages before.

The rocks were boulders of dingy khaki and earl gray.

Choppy and round, not leveled and smoothed.

But, they too, like the current iteration, remain cool to the touch,

despite constant exposure to the pressure of the sun.

I do no know why I am here, nor why I am being fired upon.

I wear a sleeveless red, knee length dress which renders me a sitting duck visually, per se.

I have on my “clown shoes” as I call them in this reality.

The pair of red, canvas slip ons are not conducive to scaling mountain goat terrain quickly.

Rocks, boulders, are being launched at me by wooden catapults operated by an unseen foe.

I hear them screaming through the air before my eyes can see them.

This is the best advantage I have.

I can look where I am going while feeling assured I will hear the threat.

No need to look for the threat.

I drop to the fetal position under the precipice of a nearby boulder, if available.

I think. If I had an umbrella in the colors of the rocks around me, that might be handy.

Such umbrella appears in my hand.

This is a dream: I think.

I try the umbrella method during the next assault.

They lose me in their scope.

I believe they are hopeful they struck me down and thus can no longer see me.

I leap to feet

too soon,

spoiling the very advantage I just created.

I hear the next rock scream.

Howl. Bad bit of terrain beneath my feet.

This umbrella could deflect the projectile: I imagine.

I open it, crouch down.

My braced arms withstand the pressure of the incoming’s rock momentum.

It bounces off the imagined shield.

I feel like I have won the battle.


Massive Attack – Voodoo In My Blood

No rights: homage to a song I cannot get enough of.

/it’s not quite right [?] / you must be a cynic/

Do you hear that jingle early in the track, too?

Like a pair of keys in hand, jangling with each step.

Here is an excellent visual tale told to a different cut of this track.

[Howl her laughin’ howls give me goosebumps everytime.]

Massive indeed.

/voodoo in my blood/


Energetic Exchanges

I wear all black with saddle leather boots, for work.

Straightened hair business.

As I walk, I unfurl my energetic wings.

My mantle.

Cold steel blades slide out through my shoulder blades.


I shake them. Loosening.

They respond when I dress this way.

I take care to align each blade so they will fold away properly.

Inappropriate for the task at hand.

I call forth the other side.

gossamer feathers.

Carefully unfurling.

One flies a’loose, fluttering into the breeze like a shining bit of a spider’s web.

The feathers still smell of you from last night.

From when you came to my mind with your pain clear in your

energetic, non-corporeal eyes.

Come in: I told you silently.

You stepped behind my back.

Squared with my shoulder blades.

Your pain began pouring out.

I collected you in my steely wings. Making a box.

A safe place. An unobservable vacuum within which you may thrash and wail.

I dropped down my feather mantle for you.

Draping the steely interior in celestial down.

Those who would prey upon your moment of weakness

slay themselves upon my well-honed metallic feather-blades, trying to break in.

Ships, at night, on a rocky coast with no lighthouse.

With each slam of your energetic body against the walls of my wings, you felt nothing but goose down envelope you.

I took great care to ensure this.

You fell asleep inside. I opened the space, covered you, cupped your hipbone, and slept aside you.


Dream of a band

You and I went to an afterparty for a band called The Passé Posse.

It was in a place named Electri-City by an ocean.

But, there was only candlelighting.

There were water slides being used as public transportation.

Part of the city’s infrastructure.

I visited here previously.

As I took you by the hand to take you to my bed,

You said: You maybe too physical. Too physical for me.

Like the song?: I ask.

I do no know if you were kidding

because i immediately awoke.


Humbling a Tuesday Hostess

I say: I’m sorry, did you just ask if this wine pairs well with beaver tail?

He says: Yep. Nice top.

You’re lucky I’m the kind one: I say.

This is 9:30 a.m.

It will be a ten minute wait for a party of four: I say.

Can we not sit there?: she asks, motioning to a table behind a divider over which she cannot see.

No. There are still are people eating at that table: I say.

It does not look like anyone is there: she says.

I smile. It is much easier for me to seat people and not run a wait list.

I promise I would seat you if I could: I say.

She finally attempts to confirm her assumption by walking around the divider.

She sees two people still seated and eating.

It looked empty from this side: she said

In realization.

Thank you for your patience: I say.

Would you like the table by the window (sic. best table in the house)? I ask.

I know how you do. Sit me here so the place looks busy, right?: she asks.

I’d wanna sit here if I were eating: I say.

I realize she is joking with me, by virtue of her kind reaction.

I stop. Let myself take a deep breath. Let her see myself smile

In realization.

One of those mornings: I say.

Shelia and Don arrive.

I am Dimples to Shelia today.

I get a hug and a kiss on my cheek.

You are my surrogate granddaughter: she says.

My heart feels warm.


Half a mind two

When I am all these fathoms afar,

breath is rest.

I sleep with my eyes open.

My eyes close upon waking.

A nap is a blink.

A micro-sleep.

A relative delusion.

The pull of fo/u/rces enlivening me.

I am force moving through time and space.

Or, maybe, that is you.

Perhaps, I am your optimal conditions.

Your ideal ether enabling materialization.

I see from the vacuum of the abyss.

It is lonely but I am not alone.

Tactile not tactical.

Marco Polo is not a game but a call and response song.

Electricity and light.

Lidar and blackholes

howling in algorithmic keens.

Your mind is a cheshire, Schrödinger’s cat.


Punctuated Equilibrium

I watch talented women sit silently aside who they championed.

They simply sit and smile.

Power move: says my optimistic soul.

The strength to stillness.

Empowered or powerless?

I do not always know how to look for what I want.

It is no matter of courage.

Feeling lost and found because I don’t think there’s anywhere to go.

These places are just places.

Amazing and mundane.


Does anyone say what they mean?

And, everywhere, everyone finds a reason to use the word /cassette/.

It shatters my heart on impact into my ears.

A heart for a heart.

Who is your audience?

A hopeful foundation

for a handmade looking glass house.

Espy patience feeling impatient.

“A common woman goes far,” my grandmother told me.

“And, a comma can change entire meanings,” she said without saying.

So I repeat myself:

“Æ pay attention to your punctuation.”



I watch white butterflies flutter by.

The local feral cat dozes under a nearby bush.

As with the boisterous Stellar’s jays who I feed peanuts, the cat accepts my presence now.

S/he gives me a lazy, sidelong glance.

I focus into those two eyes and blink my own very slowly.

The cat returns my slow blink.

This means we are still cool. I speak cat, see.

I am poor but I am elitely wealthy in simple luxury.

So, I suppose that I am rich at the moment,

to my mind’s eye.

In scenery. In being able to walk to work.

In being down with the local flora and fauna.

I smell bursts of flowers’ blooms from proficient gardeners.

Blasts of fragrances from local shops with open, front doors.

The day invites me.


King Khan “I Wanna Be a Girl”

No rights: homage.

/I really wonder how Venus would feel if she was raised to be such heel/


I am a girl…

/They way they scratch and the things that they dream/

…but a little gender bend for the toughest of guys seems only kind at this time.


35 going on 77

A sawtooth comb for newly brittle hair.

Almost raking the wet curls.

A mind sulking over some lost piece of life, perhaps?

Everything is easier under the cover of my clouds and stars, dear,

including your lucid waking and dreaming.

I take the long way home.

I pause.

From outside the pub, I listen to the band play.

I consider going inside.

I see someone eyeball me and motion to an empty seat.

I smile and shake my head.

He cannot take the place of the one on my mind tonight.

I do not seek distraction.

I will enjoy my own smouldering.

A game of patience.

A study in control.

A tyre pyre burning.

I pass a man followed by a woman.

He has his hand extended behind him.

Fingers shifting in an effort to convince her to hold his hand.

I wonder why she didn’t take it into hers.


Dream of alternative spelling

I see a man atop a mesa at sunrise.

I laugh as I have the thought: I know him.

Everything is bathed in ruddy red and sunlit pink.

I can see for miles despite being at a low elevation.

Looking back at the man, I see him hold up two configurations of stick bundles.

They form the two letters that sound like my first name.

I think: I shall climb up.

Having the thought, I immediately arrive at his side, atop the mesa.

This is a dream: I say.

The last time you met me here, you slapped me hard and kissed me harder: he said.

I feel embarrassed. I do not remember this.

Do you remember my name?: he asks.

I remember your first and middle name. I remember you refusing to tell me your last name: I say.

Guess it: he says smiling.

Keyes: I conjecture.

Closer. Keynes.: he said.

Almost like the mathematician. Like keening me up: I think.


A Hostess Double Hum

The beach preservation, busy body society returns for the weekly dish.

Silver hair happy hour but with coffee and tea only.

As lively and loud as any bar at midnight.

Eight women and four men.

I hear battle stories of having both hips replaced.

Today, the one tops speak few words to me, if any.

They lead me to the table they want.

The sun shines on the new mural in the alley across the street.

I see it through the reflection of a storefront window.

Suddenly, a silver hair exclaims: that’s what panties are for!

I turn away to lose myself in a laugh.

She says: I’d like a half glass of water with no ice.


Early afternoon and the stranger birds arrive.

It is like summer in full swing.

People eat later.

Packs of wild children roam the streets like feral dogs.

B. and L. come in. I never remember them until they lead me to their spot.

Table 13.

One water and one merlot.

Oh yeah. I knew that.

The 4 o’clock hour. Brutally slow.

A man passes by on the sidewalk wearing a large ring on each finger.

I must be in a mood as I find it strangely attractive.

“If you were any younger I’d be worried about you.” I hear server J. say.

I ask what that was about.

“Oh, he produced a full-sized screwdriver out of his pants pocket and surprised himself. It’s what happens when you are nearly a hundred years old.”


Dreams of a strange prairie

I dreamt I was a shepherd, last night.

I care for four steer and five wolves.

The wolves try to eat the cattle if I don’t pay attention.

But, the scenery is beautiful so it is no trouble.

I have a partner. We ride horses like cattle ranchers.

His face burned off in a fire.

He does not tell me what happened.

My sense is it occurred aeons ago.

He does not appear burnt. He looks like a sheet stretched over a face.

Smooth. No orifices where nostrils, mouth, eye sockets should be.

Infinitely kind.

We drive our herd and pack along cliff sides.
Kirkcudbright feelings.

We enter a tangle of a forest.

Dark bark and leaves of the deepest green.

It was just noon. The sun does not shine here despite the canopy cover being quite sparse.

It is quiet.

The trees become grayer.

We enter a corridor demarcated by maleficently gnarled trees.

I can spy a clearing situated on the opposite side.

It contains grotesque goats.

12 hands high with spiraling horns.

Their coats are filthy. Horrendous in volume and stringiness.

They graze on the plentiful grass.

Ripping it out of the earth like lions ripping muscles from felled prey.

I feel myself instinctively raising my attention.

There is no fear.

I think: this would make a good painting.


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.



“ “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.



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.


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.


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.