Author: writtencasey

The copse comes from the one who reminds of them and then. A throat closes and suppresses the cough. 

A wonder at what crosses the other’s mind. Wonder does not equal to care to find out. There a grosse of cognitive dissonance. 

A distance between the three. An equilateral. Someone knows something; but, that one knows no-thing. This one knows what that one does not. The last knows but will not speak. Who is whom and who is two? 

Frenzied fixing and repeated doors opening and closing. 

The whistling.

Remember the dark forest?  The one burning blackness for sky and lightness for leaves.  The one that turns to stone in autumn.

The green leaves fade and ossify. Calcification in a collagen matrix.  The whole woodland appears as stone.  Still and abiding.  Until, the breeze blows.  Rocks break from limbs and strike the earth. Tiny plunks collectively accumulate into seismic activity.

It awakens her.  The red woman.  She sleeps happily until this time.  She walks unaware daily.  When the rocks fall, however, her scarlet nature awakens and she changes. 

A fox stirs, popping up and trotting along. Investigating.  Sniffing.  Curious.  

The red woman looks at it and the fox begins screaming laughter. The red woman joins in howling with the vixen kit.

When the shrill cries cease, they look at each other once more.  Both turn away, and go about their business.   The fox following newly awakened needs. The red woman follows the scent of that which must be handled. 

A supertramp knows the crime of the century was deconstructing the wall with no psychedelic flim flam.

The same way diving into water mirrors soaring upon wind.

Strange currency in common currents. Sublime manipulation of earthly gravity through oft forgot, simple material elements.

Understood by few; and, so mentioned with a wink and grin.

Mutters heard in the background as the stage falls apart and brings the house down,

Porcine squealer laughing.

The austerity of eating rice pudding instead of the apple tart.

Self-indulgence is self-pity lacking purpose.

What is mind? No matter.

What is matter? Never mind.

It is necessary to be pushy; but, fatal to seem so.

~Bertand Russell

Losing your way into the strange spaces discovered.

Brambles and thorns.

The record spins, previously unplayed. It scratches so hard that you wonder if your diamond split.

Origami of viynl.

You thought you knew these songs; but they sting you: hard enough that tears of black wax fall from your ducts.

~

A hunchback beast prostrated before the barren tree. A white skeleton of a trunk. Threadbare yet beholden. Wishing to jump into the river.

You feel hungry.

You find yourself in a parking lot, on a rowboat. The sun beating. You have three choices:

1. The black asphalt that draws the sun into you. Nagual.

2. The white side path that reflects the sun onto you. Tonal.

3. Those yellow dividing lines, too thin in which to seek refuge; but, meant to hold you between. Intent.

In suspense, as a harp scales up; a piano scales down.

~

The thin woman told you, “I love the heat. I sit. I play my phone game. I work my word search book. I stand up and walk. Then, I do it all over.”

You run. You age. You sit. You listen.

I remember the purple grass.

The Evil Eye

The Kind Longneck

The theory is fantasy of the practice; and, the

practice makes one wish themself asleep,

dreaming of the theory.

This notebook is upside down and backward.

It strikes strange that the lord largely seems to prefer sinners.

Forgiveness trumps the obsequious.

Interesting dominates normalcy.

The bargain over Job could only intrigue so long,

Until divinity starts a new game of mahjong.

An unlaunched missive is not an armed missile; just a simple epistle.

Your old haunts are not your new hangouts.

Return and advise.

Time fra(c)ks on; and, the wrinkles around mine eyes grow deep, but show the decades of a consistent smile.

What burned smolders.

What intimidated may now, well, produce reminiscent giggles.

There remains a difference.

Talking and listening.

Deny the former and indulge the latter.

~

And, Junior Kimbrough watches your back when you say,

“Most things haven’t worked out.”

Especially when the house is too big and filled with ghosts whom you have never known,

as well as those to whom you have no connection.

How much house does one need?

To what end?

A stair lift chair for old age?

A downstairs room, separated from the kitchen, previously called the breakfast nook,

Now your bedroom

;

Because,

Stairs…

And, the Cold Reader’s weapon is asking the question,

“What do you want?’

Four words contained; yet, this question can reckon a wo/man to knees.

Your slight frame personified by pale skin and high cheek bones.

And, æ says hi to your unassuming hyena.

Boldness un-presuming.

Let me show you how to pick the carrion clean

And suck the marrow from the bones.

For all men must die.

But, that which is dead cannot die.

Let us waste another year.

What’s the difference between a circle and an oval?

A foci and a center.

A constant and a repeated succession.

A viscous form of arguement in which the conclusion is virtually assumed to prove the premise, and then the premise made to prove the conclusion.

Arguement in Circle.

A circle and a sphere is a matter of an extra dimension leading axis to become.

It is cold; so, she finds slips of sunlight peeking through almost drawn curtains.

They hit her face.

She closes her eyes and watches the images burned inside her lids

The sunlight is white; the residual image of the shape behind closed eyes is blue.

The well fills, deep and muddy.

So, they bury the dead above ground,

higher than the black water can reach.

A petite girl, with dark eyes and even darker hair, smiles.

Maat shan’t find those not kissed by the Sun;

And, those she cannot find, Osiris blesses.

A girl writes her younger sister.

She cannot locate her stamps.

“I just used them,” she exclaims in frustration.

“Where was the last place you remember seeing them?” he replies.

“In the oddest of places I placed them; because, how could I ever forget keeping them in such a strange place.”

He fingers through bizarre boxes she keeps, oddly bound journals she’s never opened before him.

“They are not here. But, there are words contained here. Esoteric words that are somehow more understandable than the sentences containing them. I feel as though I do not know you.”

She stops and looks upon him with exasperation.

“Do you not leave notes or stories to your future self?! Where do you leave bread crumbs, Hansel? Put my croutons back where you found them. I am not looking for their trail now.”

She felt small, so it took a couple of seconds to make the easter decorations stand erect.

Straw chicks with plastic beaks and ridiculous fluffy, bunny ears.

And, she’d never celebrated easter, but these were gifts given,

unbidden.

Who would deny cheeky celebrations gifted?

Perhaps, the dead of night was the most (in)opportune time to consider such serious frivolity; but, if not now then when?

She is both sparrow and the ghost, and the equinox just transpired.

Robins were already rooting about the fresh blooms of her daffodils.

How could these birds be so fat after winter when she felt so famished?

If the ghost of the natural world rises, why should sleeplessness trouble her?