“…; and, that made me happy,” he said.
“And, that makes me cry,” she replied.
And, he smiled;
because he alone knew if it was from sadness or joy.
“…; and, that made me happy,” he said.
“And, that makes me cry,” she replied.
And, he smiled;
because he alone knew if it was from sadness or joy.
I plucked you a flower when,
the moon called me outside, obscenely early and scintillatingly late.
Whispering and bragging of its brightness.
I open my mouth, but not to speak.
He takes the cue and puts his to mine.
Licking my tongue.
My hair bursts into a corona of scarlet flames,
standing on end.
Leave me here howling, until fully feral and begging;
then take and take more by making me wait and wait more.
Then eat. Anthropophagus.
The world is on fire around us.
So, let us burn here and now.
“Where the fuck have you been, mija?” Æ asks.
I say, “Listening and watching.”
“No. I’ve been doing, too. I’ve just not been talking.”
“Well, what have you to say?”
“I hear you. I see you. I love you. It is not okay what happened to George Floyd. It is terrifying and unthinkable. It is not okay to avoid things simply because you can and because they are uncomfortable to consider. It is not okay to only talk about it after something bad happens. There is a historical and systematic occurrence of the institutions existant in government that both subtly and not so subtly oppresses people of color. There does exist white privilege and it does not mean white people do not suffer. It means white people can pass in the system and get a pass easily.”
“How do you know?”
“I know little, but there are five incidents that I escaped completely untouched in Alabama specifically because I was a sweet, little white girl. I played that card on white cops, DEA agents, and state troopers. It worked like a literal, magical charm. I should have been arrested each time for committing a non-violent crime. I was never even taken into custody, merely let go immediately with an almost appreciative “you naughty minx, bad girl” grin of faux consternation.”
“So, I used to think it was because I was so effing smart. Now, I think it’s because they knew arresting me was a waste of time. Hard for a jury to convict. I could be the daughter of someone influential who would get me out of trouble immediately and potentially make a fuss at the enforcement officers. Because, that’s how it works in the Old Boy Network of The Deep South. They don’t see me as a threat. I look a lot like their daughters and sisters. I could be their sweet, little wifey. My power comes from looking powerless.”
“You’re boring me. Stop making it about you and your experiences.”
“That’s a tall order, but I can try.”
“It embarrasses you to try and talk about this doesn’t it? You’re terrified your precious ‘eloquence’ will betray you and reveal your ignorance, however well intentioned.”
“Yes. It is true. But, Killer Mike suggested looking into Jane Elliot. So, I did. And, I realized dialogue is more efficacious than silence and thus it is necessary. Being embarrassed is instructive. Also, I have the option of avoiding the scrutiny by being silent. Some people cannot avoid scrutiny when they leave their home or turn on their television. I have nothing to lose but vanity and I wish to be disabused of it.”
“You sound self-righteous.”
“I feel stupid as I stumble. I’ve purposefully been silent because of the fear of coming off as self-righteous.”
“So why open your mouth now?”
“Because, I can think of nothing else. Because, I feel powerless to actually affect change. Because, writing about anything else feels obsequious and inauthentic.”
“So what are you gonna do?”
“Well, I’m going to begin by talking about it as best I can.”
“Have you bothered to listen to the organizations people mention?”
“What about organizations local to you?”
“I have not looked into them.”
“Yeah, I should.”
“What of your country’s fearless leader?”
“Oh? President dufus? I think he is an unwell, insecure man living out his private fantasies of narcissistic grandeur at the expense of everything that the American Experiment aspired to be. I think he is an inflammatory liar and I’m acutely concerned he will manage to take the 2020 election despite and in spite of the popular vote again.”
“Say what you mean.”
“I think the affluent see this country and its people as little more than a commercial entity whose citizens exist to make them richer and more powerful.”
“Blahblahblah. Write up what you wrote the night the Minneapolis’ Third Precinct burned?”
“Why? It’s nothing more than stream of consciousness. The only audience was me.”
“Because, you need to remember that feeling.”
George Floyd (Perry)
Oscar Grant III
Tony Robinson Jr.
William Ford Jr.
James Byrd Jr.
Emantic Bradford Jr. (whose father was a police officer)
Aisha Harper, Dravon Ames, and their two, young daughters
Come sweet sleep and make your home my blessing.
A warmth wraps me sometimes.
Some poor animal jawed off its own mandible.
Probably doped up on bourbon and honky tonkin’.
Stealin’ gems and looking to claim the chastity of girls unfortunately named “Chastity.”
A couple of sharp incisors then nothing for inches until the rattling molars.
A sun bleached, white galleon.
I tug on each of mine canine teeth, to make sure they don’t rattle so. At least not yet. Sometimes I dream they crumble like chalk, leaving this iron enriched taste of saliva and powder accompanied by a metallic smell that is painful to breath because you know what it means.
The roots feel strong.
And, this strange shyness overcomes where I become bashful reading every word I write.
“I can sit by you,” I say.
“No. I suppose I could do any number of things as well as any number of other things for you, right now.”
“I don’t know. This seems best.”
“You called me.”
“You are three days too late.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t.”
“Then what are you actually saying?”
“I’m just doing my best, too.”
The rain finally fell; I missed it.
An unpacked wound left agape, to breathe in awe, and slowly heal.
A little thing festered, so I had them cut it out.
And, sometimes, I like him enough to fear he could wreck me by letting me see myself as he sees me.
A foundation. A dream of a house of cards.
The foundation will fall before you and you will then become a dream to someone else.
A sweet one and a night-mare.
Bed bugs and freshly laundered sheets.
The keel remains, but no one is at the rudder.
Those secret chiefs are here. Sometimes, I think they come to me for a laugh. They know I know; they know you know it’s going to be okay.
You are welcome, but don’t tease; because, the words are over flowing. Bubble and bursting.
Cassandra’s Cavern closes, that spot above the fourth rib.
Cicatriz of a wildling.
Whispers in my ears.
Strings of random words.
Panoramas streaming alien multitudes of locales.
I hold still.
I try to listen and see.
It fleets and my mind yells, “Stop suffering.”
“I didn’t think I was,” my non-mind replies.
I dream of a day spent by a lighthouse. Watching seals. We return home.
“Good. Your skin still takes the sun,” he says, brushing my cheekbone with his finger.
My eyes go hard into his. I feel strange. I wonder are you some sort of vampire, pale one? It’s okay. I prefer a vamp to a peacock.
Suspense and suspension; the endearment of a man in suspenders.
A giggle hushed by louder laughter in the dark issuing forth from a little one with the lecherous eye.
We recently swapped places as easily as we used to swap clothes.
A white cotton bralette with no underwire.
A wood chipper left running, unattended.
A burger joint that grinds its own meat.
The sharpening of my axe.
Split nails and feet like cloven hooves. Shesatyr running.
And, my fingers begin to invent strange signals through the bending and overlap of digits as a dog pushes its snout into the corner, trying to become invisible. I watch while I act like I don’t notice.
A divine spark. The yetzirah. Multiple bodies operating on multiple planes.
Want births intent. Breaking of want produces freedom of will. The ability to intend.
I lost myself at sea a few days ago; let me know if you spot me.
I’ve a hole in my side and there’s a hole in the world where all the people used to go.
There’s a hole in Sam Stone’s arm and there’s an Angel who still flies from Montgomery.
Click-click-click goes the capped end of my Bic, against my thumbnail.
A familiar territory. A region you know well enough by cartography. Declension and longitude; elevation and latitude.
You must act without awareness at times.
A slight before the wearied eyed is oft conflated as a sight for sore eyes.
Too tired to cite sources.
A site in sorry shape.
Overheard, today, in a doctor’s waiting room.
A couple, probably in their late 80’s, check in. They are feeble and hunched over and very grey. They are given new patient forms.
The wife sits down, looks at the form, and yells at her husband who’s still ambling away from the counter. “Harold! What gender do you identify with today?”
“WHAT?!,” yells hard of hearing Harold.
“What gender pronoun do you want them to use? I’ll write it in all caps!”
“What? Oh, gender. Does it say ‘sex’?” Harold yells.
“No! If it did I’d just write ‘yes’.”
<I have lost it at this point. The intake nurses have lost it. The nurse about to call my name is just smiling and watching.>
Laughing. I tell her, “you made my day.”
“My mother taught me that. Anytime they ask about ‘sex,’ you write ‘yes.’ “
I wanted to share the wisdom.
Sometimes, I read you backwards.
Starting with the final paragraph and stalking you back,
coda to prelude.
Because, I’m less interested in how you end up and more interested in
how you found yourself at your present conclusion.
I want to, again, layer on clothes so that I may take my time undressing in front of you.
I want to watch your eyes.
I will sing like the birds enjoying spring outside my open, bedroom window.
And, my face flushes and turns so scarlet that I could swear I am fevered.
I am not, but I swear under my breath, anyways.
I see all those slant rhymes you presume pass most by.
The repeated use of an odd word.
A woman giggles while noting she had to look it up.
I giggle, because the same woman said the same thing a year ago. The last time you spoke the Word.
I recall you as easily as ad jingles and pop songs.
It becomes embarrassing, but I’m not ashamed despite not being proud.
It smells like when ewe made toast.
And the scent memory, turns me into an overflowing ewer.
Catalyzing another metaphysical catharsis.
Hot tears spill. Oil slicks slipping down geological formations of cheekbones.
I look sad but I don’t feel as such.
I feel rapt.
I simply feel.
Make your libations and lower your vessel that I may fill it, vassal.
The govenor of the state of New York was recently asked to relay declarative sentences regarding the data analysis his scientific experts yielded unto him.
“You think I don’t give you a straight answer, you should talk to these statisticians. They never give you a direct statement.”
I message the statistician I know all too well.
Telling him the statements.
He responds, “There is a possibility he’s right.”
Today, I reread myself from twelve days ago.
She stands and windmills her arms in circles sixty times.
She bends her neck and it cracks.
“There it is,” she says, thinking, ‘Fuck. Taco Bell would be good.’
I guess I was exercising/exorcising.
Today, I reach out to aforementioned statistician, writing,
~I have a shuffled deck of seventy eight cards, I draw one at random. I replace it into the deck and reshuffle. I draw a card at random. What is the likelihood that I draw the same card?
⊙One in seventy-eight. The probability is completely dependent on the second card matching the first.
~What is the likelihood that I drew a different card each time?
⊙P(no match) = 1 – P(match). 77/78.
So, she scribbled out the math in crude ways. Slowly, by hand. As she had as a child.
<never turning in a math test before the buzzer sounded>
Well, fuck the ten of swords, she giggles.
I reread myself from April 26
Some facts are hard; some truths are soft.
Make your own Kierkegaardian leap. I didn’t bring a parachute for me, let alone you. But, would it be okay if I fell next to you?
And, No-One wilt sculpt you a wrinkled, time weathered, mountain from a molehill better than Æ.
And the reason, P.
Yesterday I asked my sister for her good Word and wrote the following:
The –thorpe was octo-. Eight little houses in the hamlet.
A community built from playing with a bit of hash- -tag
The difference between mitigation and litigation.
Right, exactly, now, the sun insists through snapped shut blinds.
Where the chord connects on the à gauche, median, and dexter sides through little loops knotted about each slat
I see my handwriting spell it out for me:
The heyoka becomes a narcissist’s tulpa.
Two of them were here; and, then, they weren’t.
And, she never met either but she knew them both.
It made her feel sad; it made her efforts feel useless.
And, both feelings felt indulgent, so she resented the emotions, to boot.
“That’s really irksome.”
“That I’m unafraid to say, ‘I don’t know’ ? “
“You could speculate.”
“But, if I did not tell you, ‘I don’t know’ before speculating then I devalue the currency of my words at large.”
In American English, the most beloved sentence laid upon ears may be, “That’s my baby.”
The refrigerator moans through its vocal coils like a horny impotent cooling out.
It boils down to a teleological desire to manipulate matter.
I’m not your adversary; I just enjoy being adversarial.
Call me ‘the devil’s advocate,’
I got no-name to guess.
All night, I sawed the log. Twelve hours of non-lucid dreams.
I open my front door and a little, mangey, wiry grey Australian shepherd pretty much falls inside my flat. S/he had been curled up as close to my door as possible, sheltering from some storm. Waking up when the door opens, the dog crawls inside, jumps up on my futon, shows me its belly, and gives me those eyes: Please. I’m not going back out there.
Then, I woke up.
I guess it’s the pup’s turn to soujurn in my dreamland heaven, the Landgrave I build and to which I retire.
Must be my turn to tend the fields.
I wonder how long the poor fellow covered the herd while this shepherd slept.
Pulling in deep to hear him say, half asleep, “I can do it.”
Can you do it on command; can you do it without hands?
I mumble, “give me a modicum of good sleep.”
Head nuzzling under his chin.
“Let’s doze. The world wants me awake; but, I’m not ready to face it.”
A hand moves to rest on an ass.
I hear a man’s bicycle’s spokes whir by my open window and he hums beautifully as he rides.
I slip from the bed’s cocoon, to part and peak through my blinds’ slats; but, he’s already breezed by.
The neighbors putter in the shared garden, a new bird feeder being installed.
I get dressed to do an investigative prowl around my block before coffee.
As I walk, I understand that I am created by intersections of energetic threads being woven together by a macro loom.
And, I remember: if you fold shoulders and make yourself small, mija, that is how people will treat you.
And, a voice in a void is worthless without resonance. Show me your panacea, boy.
Echoes of Sette in cassettes.
Pure white noise is the sound of a resonant channel chattering in the background. Before we had silicon and screens, they used the rubbing of crickets’ legs, the guttural thrust of a frog’s croak. Working like a little whirling dervish screw driving its way into foreheads.
And, I return. And, the caffeine calls. And, my pour over waits for the water to boil.
The perimeter of the aroma of my paramour, lurks and stalks.
Paramount because it is tantamount to something unseemly and paranormal.
But, no day ends; tomorrow begins and no bodies say anything.
Sentinel surveillance of the syndromic and the asymptomatic.
A coalesence of convalescence conjuncting with a tyranny of averages.
Handmade beds; and, piles of filled in journals.
The area below a curve
a line above a
Gating shepards watching Anafortas exploiting the incomplete mantle of Parcival’s effulgence.
The ecstatic trauma of successfully arching the black swan of your black sheep dreams is becoming the dog chasing a squirrel. Knowing not what to do if it actually caught it.
And, she called out to her gods and demons, saying, “wherefore and to what end?
The sun begins to rise and, still, you refuse me the password to sleep.”
Strange, dynamic current/s; accusations of dereliction of duties.
So, they transcend from surge to suppression.
Chai spice fragrance in one room; lavender and shæ in the other.
Dragon breath vapours pour forth from the room where a steaming bath is drawn.
And, food is around the wall; but, every bite is like you chewing ice next to me.
But, they don’t die; and, now, they have to live with it.
Just like the sporting, courting gentleman he was, she was informed of his intentions by writing. Epistles held in chester drawers reserved for intimates.
My temples tighten.
We said the same time. Echoing.
Impetus being found without being found impetuous.
Can we go dancing?
The living room would be fine.
Kissed hard last we spoke.
One felled; the other asleep fell.
The dispensation of the enraptured.
She sticks around fifty four years to see the Black Sun when it reappears. The scandalous subterfuge of a subtle sabotage. A gorgeous space virus that more than a few shall remember.
Rope a dope, dummy.
Keep an eye out for the advantage of my left uppercut.
Cassius Clay was hit more than Charles Sonny Liston.
These days, the howls come from a new place. A softer place. A place which usually silences itself to allow other parts to howl. But, now, they fall silent; and, this strange drone of a low, long howl emerges. No longer abrupt outbursts.
So, she put her left hand in her mouth, pushes it down, past her throat, and pulls out all of her ugliness from deep inside. Just to give it a long, hard once over. She’ll have to consume it again and work it through her system eventually. It’s not the sort of rubbish one casually discards.
And, she wears a dress of rain while waiting for the world to collectively feel comfortable and stop holding its breath.
“Sitting still is fatal. All succumb to being sedentary.”
He rolls his eyes, again.
“Bitch, I’m inexorable. I’m outrageous. Gem and the Holograms style. Pull out those old safety pins,” she tells him.
There’s an outburst of birds chittering on the otherside of her windowsill.
“They want peanuts. Unsalted,” she says motioning to the miniature flock.
“I will destroy you,” he offers.
“I know. I know. You tell me that every night.”
“Yeah, but I mean it this time.”
“I know. You’re hopelessly ruthless. I believed you the first twelve times you told me. Come to slay me or save me from the other wolf?”
“You calling me ‘Peter’?”
“No, I’m calling you a boy in wolf clothing.”
First, she assisted in erecting the ædificium of the flora’s subterranean root structure.
Learning from watching the trees talking through their bizarre vasculature, aided by moldy interpreters, the lady discovered the secrets of the adytum of Soloman’s Temple. They inscribed themselves in the Temple’s very dimensions.
Compliment to the unsated volume of the Petaled Shrine of the Pearl.
Then, Bloddeuedd asked her starling to stalk Merlin’s peregrine, leading to his Cliffside~House.
“What do you wish me to grant you for finding me¿” asks Merlin, charmed.
“The power to grant myself my own wishes,” she replies.
The nearly-old woman had rowed across an entire ocean.
Sick of water and the hyena laughs of seagulls’ cries, she found herself dreadfully lonely. A certain kind of lovely ennui.
Upon finally reaching a shore, she steps onto land.
Snatching up and opening her waterproof satchel, she snaps off her final dry match from the little book.
Striking the head, the lady sets the flame to the first tree she sees.
The limbs swallow it and ignite.
The fire brigade arrives, as hoped, her bidden welcome wagon heeding its combusted summons.
They were upset.
“You seem upset. It’s just a trick I learned from the matchstick boys,” she shrugs.
Kids soon arrive to witness the hullabaloo. The fragrance of the fire turns to a stinking reek, as they throw garbage to feed the pyre. Glass, aluminum, become explosives, followed by bombs of pubescent giggling.
“Why are you here?” the exasperated chief inquires.
“Because you have land here.”
“Because the ocean thrust me here.”
“Why were you on a rowboat in the ocean to begin with?!”
“I was exiled from another strip of land for starting fires. Shall I grab a bucket of water? I’ve experienced putting them out, too. Water? Wood? I can carry six of one and a half dozen of the other.”
“Matchstick boys teach you that, too?” asks the chief.
“No. Priapus protects them against prosecution. They never developed a taste for accountability.”
“And, you did?”
“Yes, chief. I’m an honest fire bug,” she says.
She reaches into the camisole grasping her breasts and slides out a demure rectangle. Opening her copper cigarette case, she removes one and waggles the rest at the chief.
“Want one? They make your skin look younger and your hair shine brighter.”
The chief shakes his head.
She delicately clasps the slight case closed and taps the head of the smoke twice against shut copper. Packing it.
“Suit yourself,” she says slipping the case away, against her heart.
She gingerly leans into the burning bush which is all that remains of the smouldering tree.
She inhales, putting fire to leaf, lighting her penultimate square.
Walking in, he says,
“What’s the cost of admission? For me and plus one. We won’t take up much space and can find our own place to sleep.”
“It’s hard to dream just anywhere,” the plus one adds.
“And, the statistics confirm that the data speaks, saying, ‘This is all but a dream.’ “
“Unmerrily, merrily, unmerrily. We are merely sleep walking through a mild nightmare,”
walking further in, she says.
Ending up with grandmother’s wedding china because I was the only one unashamed to use and chip it.
Gobbled down and choking on a lack of appetite..
Only one of us made it out; I still pay penance for it. An empath loves the narcissist, everytime. One ideates, conceives, while the other perceives.
Scour my skin to the bone. I am asking for it. I will disabuse you of yourself; just don’t abuse the Looking-Glass.
A sovereign holds the realm when this body alchemicalises into the temple’s adytum. Walls forged of a steely, alloy blend.
Iron and carbon. Chromium. Not allowing pliability of constitution. Intolerance. You ought to don a mask should you choose to galvanize.
It is cool to the touch and smoother than the current state of your aging flesh. Calipygian ass shining and scattering the light.
What is the difference between reflection and refraction?
Ball bearing production won a second world war. The sustenance of victory gardens yielded sustainable consumption.
A stake in envisioning the desired outcome.
“Let them bake cake.”
“All hail the queen bitch.”
She watched his exposed pocketwatch glitch, continually clicking on 1:13.
“Your timepiece has a hiccup,” she says.
“No. That hitch in its get along preserves a piece of time specifically.”
“Oh Specific Standard Time?” she teases.
He rolls his eyes.
That frozen timezone where this intensity of scent memory seduces all into succumbing. Cologne in an elevator. Columbarium. The sweet soap the waitress who touches your shoulder wears. The aroma of my shampoo lingering on your throw pillows.
“You shed, you know?” he says.
“I have known for a while.”
“I found one of your hairs a month after you left.”
“So? Where, what was done with it, and what did you care?”
He simply makes eye contact again and stares.
Returning home, with untapped tenterhooks and tarp in her pack, she bivouacked on the sidewalk of the High Street. Too tired to care about pitching shelter after being so carelessly untiring.
Just a moment to bemoan feeling alone.
Rain patters like swiftly boiling water, in spite of the shining sun. The Morning Star beating his wife again.
As quick as it comes, it will go.
Either the sun.
Or the rain.
But, the mathematical solution to 0! equals one. Seemingly impossible. Impossibly erudite. Contemplative pornography.
Like eating a raspberry just to feel its little seeds gum up the curvature of molars.
She has nothing to say during the day time.
Saving it for night time’s shade.
Knowing next time, she’ll sow these seeds into the desperate nightmares that will become your dreams.
Cowards in the cul de sacs of tax payer paved streets.
I wilt tread over these as much as I please. Let your puppy bark, your motion sensor lights trip. I am a stroller not a prowler.
And, as much as I am uninvited, you are not entitled.
You are a dead end at which I make my u-turn.
I remember you. Yeah, you. You stood next to the burning acacia bush. Hard to forget.
Whilst the girl stood before the podium, clutching her tome, a man held her tresses with scissors poised. A confusing ancient image.
Nowhere else is where she’d rather be. Snip the dead ends and make the sheep shorn.
Hopelessly old to be so young.
And, in dreams did I endlessly empty the carafe into the stone basin. Naked and milky white liquid ever-flowing. My eyes trained upon a single stone upon the ground. A star, a wizard wearing a vizard.
Two pillars of sycamores framing me.
I heard your caw.
I answered with mine own trill. Basil tinted and chai scented.
The folk of Zakopane take for granted the mountain air surrounding. Snug in chalets insulated against the Kasprowy Wierch. While opening the parcel, I confuse feeling wretched with the sensation of a heart being wratched. And, all at the sight of the Slovak postmark.
Because it makes me recall the not exactly cream cheese they call qvark. White cheese paired with fruit and a terrace. A simple ripe raspberry atop to boot.
Prattle and pitter patter.
Refreshed at being carefree sans carelessness.
You are comfortable, he says.
No. You just find me cozy.
And, they threw out all the words I firmly etched with his letterpress.
Into the depths, off cliffs of Tatras,
The Fool forever falls.
Looking like an ever-loving swine in sunglasses. Peacocking. Tail feathers all a’fan. Such a pretty fellow, just ask him.
I over hear a man dropping something in the parking lot. Cursing loudly.
Ten minutes later, he yells out at a neighbor’s squawking parrot, “shut up, you fucking freak.” Pandemic conditions do not become him.
“I’m just saying,” she not only, but also, says, “I’ve watched a criminal amount of cute animal videos this week. Like, if I was on the stand and used it as an alibi, it would go like this:
“Like, see your honor, my tablet history clearly shows I was four hours into binging six hours of watching cute cat videos when this crime was perpetrated.”
“Let the record reflect the witness is not guilty of this crime, but will be charged with something because of the egregious waste of time and countless brain cells. While I cannot formally find her in contempt, let the record show, this court sure holds her in contempt.”
“Like, I would not get a new job if these records of time spent watching were included in background checks.”
I hear the old man in the overhead apartment, creaking support beams in his pacing above me, while aggressively complaining at his phone. “Who wants to play a game,” I think. “What’s the creepiest pet name you can imagine?”
There is a cat named Mister Daddy. I know because I was in the house when it was naughty as I heard its owner crying, “No, Mister Daddy! No. That’s a bad Mister Daddy.” And, you know what? Mister Daddy, being a cat and all, just looked at this sweet girl like, “Ahh. I don’t care. Get outta my face.”
“Sounds like a real soul-shattering experience.”
“I lost sleep for a week.”
“It’s returning to the stranger of your previous self passing you by on roller skates.”
“Everyone commits unconscious fraud, but crimes against your own humanity remain largely unenforceable.”
“Don’t be silly, I just wanted to hear you say you think I’m pretty.”
“You walk with the confidence of a much taller woman.”
Because she hadn’t had a moment to breathe. No bit of space to call her own, even if she did have the back of a Camel pack, a portal of the porthole in the plaster, and sometimes a view.
Sometimes a forest, sometimes a cave; sometimes a sound.
A fault line. A tyranny of averages.
And, what I thought was an ever accumulating posse of ghosts was just me coming to notice them. For, they had been there the whole time. Like when I came to understand when someone begins a sentence with “I hate to mention it”, most of the time, they mean to say “I love having a chance to bring this up.”
When I do come back it will surely be as a book, or a bit of English in a pool game, or the illegible scrawlings penned by someone in ecstasy. And, I know God and I are playing in this moment.
“I shudder everytime I hear the record’s scratch.”
“I like it.”
“It sounds like breaking. Rumination.”
“Sounds like creation.”
“Oh, shut up, Shiva. Shakti the eff up.”
Falling into a swoon of kisses before saying “Dummy,” and slapping him from his reverie.
Lucid dreaming comes easy. Lucid living becomes tougher. I see fantastic stories through windows. I only watch real briefings to enjoy the silent signers providing translations for the deaf. I like the chorus more than the talking bobbleheads.
I recall the slight mass of you. The feel of thin, increasingly inelastic, skin covering the meat of your body. Neckline, nape, and collarbone. Connect the dots; then, come and paint me by numbers. Sign your name with a dripping brush’s tip.
These past days, I have been thumping animal hide stretched over wood. Striking a drum head, softly. Purchased in a foreign market of an alien continent where cattle roam the markets. Haggled over; Hand made; Had at a bargain. Despite being single, that day, I wore a fake wedding ring to increase the currency of my social capital. It’s all in the details innit?
And, the majority of talismans donned subliminally indicate”don’t tread on me.” A woman stranger in a man’s strange land. When in Rome, signal in Roman with protective signs.
I carried the drum on my back for weeks before sailing with it across the ocean. Talking drums teach the impact of saying things by leaving them unsaid. Cowardly lions, heartless tin men, and straw fellows appearing solid until picked apart as disappointing carrion by the mouths of old crows, before finally being blown away and scattered into bits by the slightest breeze.
Dorothy was just trying to find her way home. Wherever that place is. On her way, she sees Shiva stars exploding and feral Nataraja dancing.
“You’ve been needle-pointing with your yarn, Ariadne. You must keep moving.”
“No. I must first knit some socks for your cold feet, dummy. Otherwise, you will certainly slow me down.”
The Goddess and Godhead grew weary of playing the same, old god games together.
So, they exploded. Blew themselves apart into a billion scattered jigsaw puzzle pieces. Awaiting once promised reassembly. Now, we all seek out one another in our presently incarnated iterations. Looking for another missing piece with whom I may hold hands. Spending a spell of time choosing to walk each other home to ourselves, until each of us arrives before a door we remember forgetting.
Because she has the time, she performs the reconfiguring of the dogan. She razes, and ritely begins rebuilding her mental palace of labyrinths and mazes. The masses suddenly grow massless and restless around her, collectively unflexing the muscles of their prowess.
Even running the kitchen hood fan becomes risky; but, only because the old man upstairs is pent up and pissy. It’s become hard for him, continually hearing the business of people living. But, he creaks about the boards at a later and later hour, hoping for an email telling him, “I hear you.”
Implicating the certainty of my missing the hearing of his late night pantry raids.
A silent fireside chat.
And, even with computer processing, the avalanche of paperwork rolled over the system. A coattailing bug being currently debugged.
Some people disappeared; others went silent but seeable; and then there were those mouths which could not stop talking.
And, she wrote the same word so many times over the years, that she could no longer remember if the ‘i’ came before the ‘e’ or if the case is exceptional.
“We must stop wasting time,” he said, for the innumerable time.
“Then stop saying the same thing and get down to it. Watch the shape of the s curves of my shifting body, stretching. Do you see how the area under my curves remains the same in the end?”
“You see how some iterations of my curve are more dynamic than others?”
“Good. As regards this ardent analogy, ultimately, some will get it and some won’t.”
“So, we go slowly, take advantage of additional time.”
“Why not. Now hush and map my s curves.”
Introductions suspended while we undergo this live exercise.
New and emerging.
Novel and multicrowned.
Coranated by all together, through multiple tiaras given by the calling of too many names.
Cut like fingernails into quick. Sandpaper rubbing and Indian burns.
Salves of salvation and balms as alms for the bottom.
People now pay per view the fights they saw for free in middle school halls.
These expansive Plains of Repetition.
Iron Lightning could take a walk and return with horses.
I come back with a bit of skin darkened by the lightness of sunshine.
“Then, where are you?”
“In your nightmares.”
“While I dream in heaven.”
“Thank your gods for your Haven, fool.”
“How dare you tell me what to do. How dare you presume to know of my gods.”
“Oh. Are they so extra sacred and unique?”
“No. But they are mine.”
And, though things were terrifically strange, she felt oddly disinclined to speak.
But, she realized that she might be interested in her thoughts on now, a few months from now.
And, she enjoys tapping out characters as much as an enthusiastic pianist paws out notes from hammer and strings.
And, all the talkers were just saying the same things.
Then, she felt narcissistic for thinking about enjoying remembering her previous thoughts.
So, she shakes her head and scribbles.
So, twist and howl. Nothing else to do.
And, she feels boorishly derivative yet, impeccably derived.
So, she began each preceding sentence with inanities such as
And; but; then; so
And, she feels restless and pent up despite already being a bit of a metaphysically hermetic, solitary creature.
But, the public solicitude to solitude made her space feel imposed not chosen.
And, while the difference was arguæbly negligible, she found it curious how much the distinction perturbs her.
“Insert sentence g here?” Æ, speaking to myself, prompts.
“Okay, here goes,” I reply to Æ.
“It helps to know.”
“It helps to say.”
“It helps to hear.”
“Æ loves you when you face your insecurities,” Æ reminds me, after I say what is uncomfortable but true.
“Æ, you are/is my insecurity,” I reiterate to my shadow.
I remind myself in dark remembrance of that which has passed/past.
The response of an ecstatic grin from my animus’ smile draws my snarl.
“Are you actively working against me?” I ask Æ.
“No, doll, I’m actively working you.”
Ænima versus Ænimus.
“Indifference becomes you,” I admit.
“Because everyone else you know cares too much.”
“Cares about what?”
“About you and how you iterate right now?”
“What do you care?”
“I care that you iterate yourself at all.”
“Then I wilt be as I am.”
“Then, Æ shalt become.”
The body awoke ready to go, bit chomping.
The mirror folded; I fell inside.
Slipping between thighs. Breathy ardour.
Missing the coverage provided by the forest, traded for the raw exposure upon the lapping shore.
Everyone can hear my morning stomach growl, but doubt they do.
What’s the point?
The finality of a punctuated period.
The capital letter leads the presentation of the subsequent subject of a sentence.
Verdict of friction made visible by the absence of the fricative.
Does it taste as I imagine? Salty and acrid.
Does it pass through the nostrils in musky humid drafts?
Expelled and rolling down cliffs of pronounced pelvic bones.
The space was complicated; so, she resorted to speaking over-formally.
This town is starving for outsiders, but their dearth belies how the ravenous insiders devour the stranger.
They never saw the film but did like the video.
Intriguing, not difficult, becomes your vision.
The most trivial can be the most fascinating in this mystery of local idiosyncrasies
Strangest snow days she has ever seen.
She notes the font of her handwriting is subject to change without her awareness.
And, a single, specific thought seemingly drains your flaming blood into your feet.
Watching white suits leaving a briefing room.
Rustling. Give it two minutes and watch the weather change.
A hint of earnest, earned lethargy creeps, while the aroma of grapefruit percolates.
And, she kind of likes it when he tells her, “don’t look at me.”
The drone of an organ’s pumping warbles off of twirling, warped vinyl.
The strip of a terrific, diagonal stripe.
“Come hither, fool,” I snarled your full name while summiting multiple climaxes yesterday.
“Early on, it’s silent.”
The blinds breathe as winds plow into screens.
Screaming hyænas hawing; locking into amber.
And, the condescension of his tone really pulled his outfit together.
The light fades and the sun sinks; and, she feels glad to have finally reached the town called Tonite,
where you see nothing and she sees all of nothing.
The light begins to bleed down blind slats in trickles, splattering on her floor.
“They oughtta incentivise me,” she overhears the casual walker say.
The last burst of light leaks into a small pool on the rightside of the cherrywood desk.
Then, it slides down the legs onto the floor, below, to join the previous dribbles.
A sugar glaze.
She slid her skirt up to her thighs; and, she let the sun shine directly on her bare legs for the first time since the new year.
Her eyes closed; and, she imagined.
Heating legs of firm, chilled butter which begin melting into decomposition earthwards, below her.
Eventual food for earthworms.
She feels strands of her hair’s tresses pulling away and apart from her, flying from her crown like a dandelion’s spores into the languishing four corners of the world.
The grand finale of winter winds, amidst sun shine, finally blowing her asunder.
A cry heard.
Weather letting her dissolve into everything and await rebirth in the nearing spring.
She will poke her head back out like new-growth into the Great, Wide World, when the seasons shift themselves about her.
Until then, she silently hopes to abide in a makeshift, subterranean respite entombed in nitrogen rich dirt. Dwelling in darkness.
She comes to prefer when night comes at five and not ten o’clock.
The sun proves certain, missing absences exist within her which she already, too-well feels; so, she will enjoy the sun’s final days of not so brightly shining.
Yet, the Star teases her with its cameo appearance today, tickling her extremeties along with her forehead, cheeks, and, ears.
Its heat working in defiance of the howling chill blasting off the Sound.
“You remember me,” states the Sun, caressing. “You remember how I draw your perspiration. Draw forth those colors dormant inside of you.”
“Perhaps, I prefer the transparency that winter gifts my flesh more.”
“Kunst prosa, you love feeling me excite your melanocytes. The experience of pigment changing hue. The closest you’ll come to the plant’s ecstasy of photosynthesis,” the Star hypnotizes.
Hypnerotomachia renders me suddenly languid.
“I sense ice in your veins.”
“No shit. And, when your blood is frozen, winter cannot make you any colder.”
“Let me thaw you.”
“You will never thaw me; you will only make me sweat.”
“I will make you high.”
“But, then you will leave me dry.”
“Drink more water, should that be your concern.”
“Not until you make me,” she teases.
She takes off running down the lapping Sound’s shore.
Appearing joyous, but truly seeking to the shelter of shadows
Sensing her terror in the face of his brilliance, the Sun says, “I shall not hide today. I am faster. You will never out run my effulgence.”
“I know. But, I want you to make you prove it all over again.”
“Then, it shall help if you keep your skirt hiked up, please.”
It becomes entrancing to speak over certain sonic soundscapes.
The spell of time it takes.
Some times sometimes equals…
Whispers and hushed cadences of proper pronunciation uttered in exhalations.
Wind chimes play themselves, engaging in an impromptu scratch band jam.
Speaking in silvery serpentine, panting tongues.
Wound about a staff; a string fretted across a guitar peg.
The sun was tired today. Its absence made it more visible than its own, natural effulgence.
What writing is not dependent upon the current mental space of the scrivner?
Like when s/he chooses unnecessarily fancy words to say “writer”.
And, whence does the unhearable punctuation of a period fall in the intervals of this recitation of quotes?
“My lips are dry.”
“They make a topical for that.”
“So, you aren’t opposed to topical on principle?”
And, by the time she finds a page and a pen with which to record her whereabouts, she realizes, she has lost the thread.
Having pulled it taught over countless right angles and teasing curves to have only misplaced it.
It sprung back, in release, undoing god knows how many yards of work, in her negligence.
Disorienteering with Ariadne.
Tagged like feral game; categorized as uncategorized.
She catches a chill and undergoes a shaking spell.
Then, she is overcome by an awful heat and feels each pore producing perspiration.
But, she refuses to yield to the wind’s howling blasts. Wet hair whipping her cheeks as she walks under the gray sky.
“I am inexorable.”
And, she is glad to have a little, physical battle to fight. Anything to distract her from thinking of her subliminal war.
And, though it is Friday night and she strides down Main Street, she passes no one.
She recalls how it stayed cloudy all day. The light did not change.
She studies her left hand, as she thinks she could be dreaming. But, it appears innocuously mundane.
“Daydreamers are still sleepwalkers,” she realizes, giggling.
Then, she feels too silly for her age and too aged for her years.
Unnaturally timeless. And, still, the moment passes but her face remains essentially the same.
Rules are simple lip service if unenforcæble.
The fleshy mask worn was the kind of face you put on money.
And, blind hogs suffer no disadvantage in finding acorns.
Snouts sniffing and hairs on chinny, chin, chins bristling.
The caller received a courtesy disconnect.
Provided when the wait is too long and no-one is giving up.
A psst becomes easily confused for a hiss.
And, she finds it a bit too easy to be silent until she thinks of exactly what she would like to say.
In the face of all they have done.
“Let it languish,” she hears the silence say.
A breeze blows like a whisper, across her windowsill.
A universal exhalation of the collective unconscious.
Feeling it tickle her cheeks like jet-current streams, she inhales the salty, trade-winds through her mouth; and, holds it like combusted tobacco leaf smoke.
Letting it, leak out, eventually,
as unseæble vapor through her nostrils;
because, it feels more filthy than expelling it through the mouth.
“Slowly,” she thinks.
“I’m just fixing to have a real good time,” says the Southern (Parçi)gal.
She recalls more quotes to express the feeling than she can count.
But, she says none.
“Slowly”, she says from a mezzanine of her own.
“Let me show and you can tell. Tell me what you see when you look at me.”
“That way?” he confirms.
” Yeah, when you look at me that way.”
“And yet at that time, when the sweet savor of your ointment was so fragrant, I did not run after you,” sang the Song of Soloman;
to which Augustine of Hippo, immediately chimed in, “Therefore, I wept more bitterly as I listened to your hymns, having so long panted after you. And now at length I could breathe as much as the space allows in this our straw house.”
The earth reversed the direction of her rotation about the axis.
The world inverted.
A hunched over, limping man walks a sandy path, alone, with a heavy burden.
Something of a phenomenon, alive amongst a barren plane.
A tesseract is a cube eating itself endlessly.
The curves of her moebius strip.
Her figure eights, accompanied by her steed’s flying-lead changes, enables both to fly off on another tangent.
“This is the fruit of my confessions,” says Parçigal.
“So says you,” Æ reply.
“No. I quote.”
And, Bloddeuedd wandered through the first forest clearing, naked; and, she felt no unnatural sense of self-awareness regarding her state.
Her unnatural sensory organs felt that portentous sensation indicative of The Merlin’s presence behind her.
She could turn around to try to catch a glimpse of him.
That never worked, experience suggests.
Instead, she looks down at the meadow under her bare toes.
It feels crisp. Quite pleasing.
Her hair, freshly cleaned, contributes its newly found aroma to that which is already aired by the local fauna.
She hears the beatings of a large bird’s wings over her head.
She recalls how a demon and a dæmon are not the same thing.
But, sometimes, one is the other; and, it can be quite pleasing.
And, her brow somehow furrows while her eyes go wild and big.
Deep focus on what seems alarmingly terrifying.
That sound. That noise.
Echoing into silence as quickly as it came.
Unnaturally brief racket of an ungodly symphony.
She shakes at the hearing.
And, she realizes she has been holding her breath.
So, she exhales, inhales, waits a moment, and, makes a strange sign over her left shoulder, using the fingers of her hand.
She hears the click of a jaw going clenched.
The restaurant had been taken hostage by some invisible organism/s which may or may not be present.
The siege occurred five days ago.
Ever since the onset of the hypothetical, immediate threat of possible hostile occupation, the front of house staff has stared out the restaurant’s windows with tea saucer eyes like anxious animals in ASPCA advertisements.
Please, sir, won’t you come inside and have another?
Prisoners of a war that may or may not need fighting.
In the back of house there is a shell called the ‘skeleton crew’.
The chef runs the silverware through the industrial dishwasher twice when we run out of clean spoons with which to reset tables.
The absence of the spoon in her settings, distresses.
So, a hostess gets uppity when she runs out of spoons.
She gets especially uppity when it happens on slow days.
But, today it does not matter.
So, she cares not, just notes it needs doing and notes whose rotation it is to eventually do it.
Today there is no dishwasher. They called him off.
We take turns with the task.
She simply sets tables without spoons;
knowing full well, no diner will be seated at the incompletely set table for quite some time.
No patron will arrive to suffer this mild inconvenience.
Aesthetics suffer almost imperceptibly while the bottom line suffers devastating loss.
But, she goes through the motions automatically.
There is no need to increase hygiene standards.
That shit is always first and formost.
Global freakout or otherwise.
“Funny how the WHO’s commercial guidelines for handling this threat are exactly the same protocols we already follow,” she mumbles to the owner.
“Who do you think is actually the problem?” he asks, through a thick Vietnamese accent.
“Let’s all just wash our hands, not touch our eyes often, and get on with the business of being alive,” she thinks.
She brings him oatmeal with his favorite fixings, without being asked.
Just like everyday, she makes sure a table is spotlessly clean, disinfected with properly diluted commerical cleaning agents.
“What is the real price of convenience and luxury?” she wonders.
The hourly wage of one dishwasher’s full shift.
The daily hourly wage of a line cook and sous chef.
Two hours of a hostess’ time.
One hour of the second in server’s time.
The present guests receive the best service possible.
Everyone plays dead for fear of becoming dead if they don’t; but,
a few diehards refuse to sacrifice quality of life for speculative quantity.
And, she bebops, dreamily hosting the modest volume of today’s lunch service.
She notes a newly added sign over the hand washing sink at the server station.
It says: <insert restaurant name here> EMPLOYEES. PLEASE WASH YOUR HANDS. IT IS GOOD FOR YOU <insert punctuated, smiley face here>
She knows the sign is not for the benefit of the restaurant’s staff.
Your server is far more worried about catching something from you.
They wash their hands to keep you off them, not to protect you from them.
Her energy always turns over when the clock reads 3:33.
She doubts her shift will last this long.
Her focus refreshes at each daily 11:11.
This occurs approximately eleven minutes after her clock in today.
She renews herself everytime she recalls her own selfhood.
A startling state.
A man at the bar counter suddenly catches her eye.
Her mind wanders and the tray perched above her left hand, rocks like a drunkard trying to walk.
A drinking glass full of used water falls and shatters.
Bomb of contagion spraying soaking shrapnel.
It soaks her entire left side.
It sounded crisp. Quite pleasing.
It is her first time dropping a glass in the restaurant; and, she fears she might quite like breaking another.
She watched the Spanish moss tremble like brittle, witch hair, from the tree top canopy.
She swayed in the tire swing, to the tempo followed by the fauna of the faux ceiling.
Fayish brow radiant. Macabre grin smeared like lipstick across her wet lips.
The full moon loomed much larger than the sun. Hanged very near to the horizon.
And, the sun clearly existed to cast its light onto a face of the moon.
The moon existing to reflect the light.
Beguiled. Not mislead or manipulated.
So, breathe and find your space. Set it.
Sit on the floor and command a stunned crowd.
Crickets’ legs start singing in the midst of your wake.
Hyenas and spiders, hucksters and tricksters, wipe slates clean and call themselves rock stars.
An amplified battalion of holy Roman candles.
She swings on the rubber pendulum and watches them burn out, one by one by one.
And, they make her feel timeless as she watches their combustible timelines fly violently up, by, and, past hers.
And, the world around her transitions from dusk to dark.
And, this is howl she howls.
Shielded by the shadow of the tree from which she swings,
pitching her head back and pushing her face skyward,
she takes a deep breath in with her mouth.
And, she forces the air hard and fast from her lungs, back out of her humid mouth.
The anatomical line is straight.
She lets it whisper a vibration over her vocal chords; plucking a hushed, prolonged “ha” from the guttural.
And, she feels all her venom pouring out like ectoplasm at a traditional Victorian seance. It is ebony while everything else has gone red.
And, she swears she has forgotten howl to breathe; but, then she recalls she is unable to remember what made her believe she needs to breathe at all.
Secret doors and hidden entrances, collectively called
a hunch of archways.
The price of admission is the cost of focused attention,
afforded by the prise of having discerning eyes.
Hunker down and cross the threshold.
The gatekeeper nodded you in and whispered, “god bless.”
Speaking softly to unseen entities,
she was pacing the bridge over the salmon ladder,
looking like little red riding hood in a scarlet dress and houndstooth coat.
A mile in the woods, gazing into the water below and becoming quite sure it was actually the sky and what she thought was the sky above was actually water.
The sky below and the pond above.
The pond does not reflect the sky.
The sky above is a giant mirror reflecting the bits of sky below
which we call water.
She feels her pupils suddenly dialate revelation of the trance state, wherein visions and dreams do come.
You were right to call it tricky.
Time flips and drips like a resinous sap down the bark of a tree’s trunk.
Slow and viscous.
Unable to be wiped away, time’s flow simply smears the surfaces.
It was as if someone had spread butter on all the fine parts of the stars,” she sang in her mind, looking at the watery sky.
And, in that moment she recalled something she once knew to be true.
She wonders, does it remain true even when I forget it is true?
My double assemblage point is sensitive enough to recognize when you run at a different wattage than me. And, tonight, you receive no friendly, instructive spacing or paragraph breaks because I am hotly impatient with the amount of patience you require from me. And, dummies will mistake the body of this page as scrawlings of anger. But, fools will smirk in empathy. Yelling into the Void at your shadow is not always prætty. Sometimes, it gets dark.
The saturation point.
Sun stands still today. The degree of inclination; the tilt of the axis. It’s not up and down; it’s a twirling dervish.A top a’bottom a cereal box.The (two/too) many worlds: classical and quantum.Mechanics tinkering then kicking tyres: velocity directed at space.Don’t look; the cat is & isn’t, so just let it be.Don’t change the rules by describing or observing.▪︎The Ark of the Covenant; Medusa’s Hair; Narcissus’ Reflection.▪︎A measured system’s wave function changes dramatically. So what are we studying?What are we not studying?…electrons spinning…First clockwise, then counter. Deflected up or down, state determined.The Copenhagen Interpretation
“Oh, c’mon,” said Einstein.”But, I’m a quantum system. How dare you treat me like a classical, empirical, little thing?!” I exclaim.”Entanglement. There’s only one wave function for the entire universe, sugar plum. Particles going off, but which way only No-One knows. Gnosis,” Æ says
▪︎Equal velocity in opposite directions.><Apposite.▪︎Once you see something, it cannot be unseen.Sacrifice of partial innocence and ignorance. A talisman.The wave function did not collapse; just went under construction.Pardon our progress as we erect separate worlds.Simultaneous reincarnation.Words hinting at worlds. Tao.Witticisms of Wittgenstein, “Whereof one cannot speak thereof one must be silent.▪︎…▪︎Who are all these people? Me? You? They us & we them?A computer’s operating system is not aware of that system by which it operates.It cannot fathom the algorithms it effortlessly executes.▪︎Analysis Paralysis▪︎It’s a dreadful recitation of the same information.Infinite jesters kidding, but this joke is on me because I keep gawking.And, the wave of the upcoming days presses down on all, yet makes the world as bright and light as a new pad of paper.Ripples in the fabric of spaces.
And, I can feel how close I am to getting it right.
The way my body moves into the chords.
I could triangulate my distance to it and draw a map of the region; but,
Æ prefers travel to cartography.
So my fingers fret in their work
in spite of
the fact that I do
not truly have the hands for it.
four not six;
leading to slightly fewer callouses.
Transfixed at first exposure;
but, eff Fmaj7.
Within the last few days, the days began lasting fifteen hours.
During this season.
From 6:30 to 9:30, the sun is so loud; all day, banging on drums in the garage.
And, perhaps, whomever said howling is the lowest form of magic was not doing it dexterously.
“If I have a daughter I will name her Persephone,” she told me.
“I’ll call her Effie,” I grin, referring to an inside joke.
“I hoped that’s what you would say.”
“What if it’s a boy?”
“I don’t choose.”
Sisters sharing hushed giggles.