was first called

A peculiar pretense.

Silence accelerates cell senescence.

The Oracle at Delphi did not say as much.

But, your neckline and forehead say volumes.

Draw a bath and unfurrow yourself.

Read between lines and parted thighs.

Phædo was first called Swan Song.

Fecundity and cycles of the sickle.

Bathed in adrenal springs.

Limbic projection of intimacy.

A cat purrs before a blazing furnace.

Static shocks spasming muscles from time to time.

She admits

He rolled over, having fallen fully asleep.

My cape slipping away.

I roll over and drape myself across his back.

The refrigerator starts humming.

I tap out a rhythm with my right foot’s big toe.

The tap comes easily so I’m not dreaming.

Hyper lucidity,

yet, the bed remains empty.

~

She smiles. She shakes her head.

She admits. She misses him.

Æ and Parçigal took today off

What would you want to know? Ask it.

Do you remember telling me of how you called forth the wrath of the Holy Roman Empire?

Of course.

Okay. I was wondering if I made that up.

No. Æ did. Is that your question?

No. My question remains “May I ask additional questions?”

If I say “no.”?

I ask myself “Can I ask additional questions?”

We both know you have a metric fuck-tonne of questions at any given nanosecond.

Thus, of course, I can; so, if I may not, I’ll simply compel your response with my high quality kind of curiosity.

~

Take the day. Grease your lips. Tend your nails.

Past time of prettification?

A’yup. A’purposed this time.

Our conversations must seem odd to the outsiders.

That is why they listen.

They often see themselves as you.

Æ know. Æ am your subliminal signaling, your beloved shadowy unconscious. I’m your other half.

My sneaky roommate in this skin.

And, a strange heaviness settles into her heart.

Pulling a momentary black hole that causes her stomach to ache.

Surprised at your own impatience?

Patiently, yes.

And, that restlessness is why we took today off.

A pear of dreams

Dream one

I am in a grand space. Odd architecture. Every room is a scarlett bloom or plum and empurpled. Arizonian dream scape again.

I am near the mesa,” I think.

I study my surroundings.

Bemused, I discover myself in a very decorous beauty spa. The kind of place wherein people stay two or three nights.

No mere day spa.

“What the howl am I doing here? I can’t afford this,” I think.

Suddenly, it hits me. I’m dreaming. That’s why I’m here.

I get a facial. I get acupuncture for the first time.

“Oh, I like,” I think, strangely aroused.

I re-emerge into the hallway of the spa.

There are many people wandering around in robes.

Suddenly, I start howling in full dreaming lucidity.

Cracking up. Laughing and laughing at the luxury my dreaming mind has conjured for me.

Then, everyone I am passing in the hallway starts laughing hysterically.

I realize, they are not creations of my dreaming mind. They are actual other embodied humans who are also lucid dreaming in this same astral plane.

Some of them laughing at watching me come to understand that we are all sharing a lucid dream.

Some of them laughing because my laughing has made them become lucid and understand that they, too, are lucid dreaming.

I laugh so hard I wake myself up.

~

Dream two

I am at a strange encampment. Deep in the woods.

There is an almost-valley; it is better described as a geological indentation, akin to a bowl.

It has been made into a cathedral with no ceiling but sky, which

is portentously grey and fretted with storm clouds.

There is an altar strewn of blackened, twisted tree branches.

People are present, but, not kneeling in prostration before their god/dess.

They frolic, idiosyncratic, rapt ecstatically.

A calliope’s pipes pumping out folksy sound in the background.

I suddenly can jump eerily high.

Like gravity changed.

Nearly and for all practical purposes, I flew.

And, I knew my task was to observe and report with no judgement.

slowly through steely

The night moved slowly through steely rain tapping out a steady hum drum accompanied by a rattling of the pipes.

I lying amongst these ghosts of all the souls no longer embodied.

Bidden recumbent repose poised before a magma flow.

Then, the night wrapped around and slung rain against panes,

slapping blinds behind the other, open windows.

And the scent of you entered.

Full frontal and central.

that with which you speak

The knob’s lock unsnaps. The deadbolt sounding in turn.

A door creaks open and closes quietly.
It is the day after the rite of the last night.
“I want. I want to,” she says, quietly.
“I want, too,” he whispers.
They are two.
“Kiss my lips,” she says.
“Which pair?”
“I don’t care. Just put that with which you speak to the pink of that with which I feel.”
“I feel too big,” he says.
“Then your heart is full and hollow like a cactus tree.”
“I wish I felt emptier,” he says.
“Why?”
“So that I could dissolve back into the ether for a respite,” he replies.
“Like, die?”
“No. Like, dream.”
~
“Exorcise me.”
“Tears aren’t cutting it?” she asks.
“No. Fall apart with me.”
“Why don’t I just pet your head when you feel worthless or uninspired?” she coos.

the bench, aside.

The Mæstro sat on the bench, aside the novice.

“We shall make a song. I will play middle C. Quarter notes. Choose any key and add a note.”

The neophyte pawed at G in the next octave up.

“Now add another.”

The beginner stutters in anticipation of selecting the proper note.

“Savor mystery momentarily, but do not consider. Do.”

A hammer strikes a string. An E resonates.

Now, scaling C in three octaves, the Mæstro’s eyes close.