A berserker producing a glass of Norton wine that makes you want to shake the hand.
It is an Ibis’ vintage.
Breathe.
I have not heard you speak so.
Voice trembling and slightly rushing.
{Words between the lines}
Who did you envision as your audience¿: Æ wonder.
⊙
I remain Wittgenstein’s Mistress to the bibliophiles.
In the quadrangle, where others play chess,
where others play tennis,
where Æ square(ly) dance in strange ellipses, orbiting
the pieces and players,
our cads and minnesänger, wondering
Since when did “simple” imply “stupid”¿
⊙
And, minne-spæker,
it is because you bit and swallowed the Sardonios plant, that you convulse and laugh so strangely and hard. I have read it tastes bitter to the buds.
Is it so to the taste of your tongue¿
It has got you laughing so hard that the neighbors complain.
Sardonic giggling at the guilt of being worry=free,
at your shamelessly feeling restless when you have no desire to idle,
at the inability to enact due to your concern for being imperfect.
An ideal idyll.
⊙
An Arizonian dream of summer, intension of heat, arises within me,
even though, the ambient temperature is frigid, like desert (k)nights.
It radiates outward and into all which my skin contains.
And, I’m sweating heavy like summer.
Smelling for you.
Feeling beadlets bursting from the multitudes of singular pores in my face.
My visor and visage.
A strong craving for coffee consumes me.
in the
Blue House.
Now, I’m sitting here
hoping
this water will boil,
WrittenCasey 