AE am to myself as Harry Haller was to the wolf of the Steppes.
Ae am Casey; but I æ am also cagey.
What do you want to have come here, now?
Yes, Hermine that you long ago slew-
back when we all lived in the forest-
Oh, you sweet fool.
I’ve not been mad at you since.
On the contrary, I am more aroused than ever, as you like to say.
But, just as lovesome as before, though, sugarfoot.
I worry you’ll kill me all over again.
You forgot to laugh, mouse.
That is it.
It is all of which you are guilty.
We were in a Mad Theater, darlin’.
Do you effing get it yet?
You were Pablo.
No, they will never get it. Us.
I forgot it was funny too.
We are lovers’ lovers
and not everyone can be The BeeGees.
I contend that we are new, wholly original.
What it is.
It is what it is.
That’s what it is.
So are we.
Do you see it? Why I dressed like you?
Fireworks this time, dear.
Not World War III.
The second one went on endlessly.
Man has always loved the endless variantions in surfaces.
Woman is pure essence,
though she’s forgotten (and I marvel at it).
I marvel that man sees but only one surface-
when He looks upon Her;
for in truth, as T. Mann said,
there are multitudes.
Effing sweet idiots.
Sh/We have made ourselves more than pretty enough,
given our beauty.
AE am callæbus equus;
I will not be ridden mercilessly anymore.
Are you then kind?
And, can you prove mettle?
I hone and forge and
and could continue to do so endlessly.
This manual labor is effortlessly easy.
Keep on going; there it is.
You hear them, right?
You know you are not them, yes?
That’s the way we get by.
Darling, “that’s how the beads around our face make sure to fit back in place.”
It was you who first told me all this, silly.
So just keep singing, writing, reading, snipping, playing.
Do you and find yourself anew.
I’ll keep trying to prove that Alice Ladder said,
“Curiouser and capriciously.”
“Curious and curiouser.”
(says I, KC, for the umpt.eenth time;
so forgetful am AE!)
Life is just a dream of a game, moth.
We can always go to sleep again.
We can sleep and dream like no others.
That’s why we return.
That’s why æ can smell You from miles away.
Run. It’s fine.
Fall asleep with me.
Stay awake with me.
I keep my love with you anyway.
It’s Soul Power by James Brown.
Lovely repetition that mesmorizes,
that ends up sounding more complex than the sum of its parts.
Because it is.
It’s David Bowie’s
(or was he Ziggy then?)
“I’ll be a rock n’ rollin’ bitch for you,”
you sweet, silly pink monkeybird.
When I removed the bobby pins and
let my hair down;
I told you:
I washed it. It smells like a garden. I did this to please you, because it pleased me.
Then you said:
Oh shit, give me what I want. But, my dear, don’t give it to me yet, please.
laughter ; tears ; pert pebbles ; puffing ; full deluge
Effing, eh, sugarfoot!
It’s been forever since you last said that.
In fact, it’s the oldest memory AE have.
You were in a garden with some kind but dull friend.
You opened a book.
It wasn’t a special book,
except that it was the only book you had around to pick up.
No, you didn’t have a pen.
You opened and read something and I couldn’t hear you.
So I said:
That is the first time we ended the world.
Well-that I can still remember, I suppose.
It is still
Still Life with Woodpecker.