Impatiently spinning my pen, furiously fast yet without any malice,
up and down.
Dropping it like the mic after I just spat the hottest sixteen of my life.
proper etiquette and charm can be a real turn off.
The desire to find you through this slow unmasking.
That day I saw a woman,
with a faun’s head,
wilt her own beheading,
after a chalice of wine drunk.
A phone call missed. A phonemic misstep.
Grey skies with snowy smatterings.
A knitted, houndstooth stow dragged across frozen over tar.
And my pen runs smoothly.
Yet, sometimes when I reach for it,
I surprise myself because
I did not realize Æ wanted to say something.
And sometimes, all the words Æ scriven mean nothing.
The act, not the result, is mine interminable goal.
An indiscernible mumble of voices slipping through my open window and into my ears,
bringing a start, shudder, and frown.
Let me read aloud to you.
Anything you wish.
Anything to get
Like a hot bath.
Like that sudden ringing in my left ear.
And, the day I saw the faun-headed woman beheaded,
I first saw her rip off her own smiling face.
Terrified as the blood spurted and the exposed muscles tore, I witnessed her dancing in the splatter like it was a lawn sprinkler in July’s middle.
We shall all hit a point of no return. A matter of when not what-if.
The Magister threw himself into the water willingly.
Seeking to fade away before Telgarius’ son.
To turn the wheel with intent, seeing his position no longer rested on the axle’s center, but now stretched across
Not to let the wheel turn him.
But, one man found that,
beneath the wheel
, there is a twirling reel to reel,
spinning cassette tape string
, a’strung between two spools turning.
The turning of the screw.
The taming of the shrew.
The typing pool of the monkey troop producing works enacted by Shakespearen troupes.
The evolution of concealed ovulation.
Wrestling into surrendered submission.
Phonemic smelting of a howl of words written.
Locksmith and the kNight witch seeking the subliminal through the automatic.
Æ break mine own heart as much as I crack myself up.
The magic of shuffling cards before lightning a prepared candle.
What is this thread of outer consciousness that draws my sweet pout?
What draws forth this expression my face makes for
What do you do with a strange bird that realizes itself to be a strange bird?
Call it The Ibis.
Decorously held in place by duct tape.
Gorilla’s glue. Chest beating and vine swinging.
Cheap giggles and swollen, turkey belly laughs.