Waiting….stranded between two sonars.
Shesatyr with Familiar;
Waiting….stranded between two sonars.
Shesatyr with Familiar;
“I’m okay, today. Just okay,” she tells her, continuing on, “I so want to be a normie.”
“Between you and me, I think normies are a bit of a boring, drag,” she replies to her.
And, I think I see a splinter in your eye; but, I fear I am mistaking it for the log impaling mine.
So, she takes a walk.
It is mistimed; because, the sun is so bright she must cast down her eyes instead of holding her head high.
In her cans, she hears someone play chord C on a piano, repetitively.
And, while she cannot count the time, she times the steps of her feet.
Four between each.
The iterations end.
A voice asks her “What shall we play next?”
“Doesn’t matter much to me. Just
” ‘There, art thou happy’?” asks Æ.
“No, I’m simply okay because I feel crummy,” says I.
“You are impressed with my quote though, yes?”
“No. It’s derivative and you know it.”
“But, he was a great writer, yes?”
“He did what he did and by “he,” I mean a slew of people. ‘Shakespeare’ is over-rated.”
“Someone is on their soapbox.”
“I am a shorty trying to feel taller. ”
“You are a coward.”
“That’s exactly the sort of thing a coward would say to me.”
“You saying I’m scared?”
“What are you saying then?”
“I’m saying I do no not want to say anything.”
“But, you won’t shut up.”
“Neither will you.”
“You used to be a good writer.”
“No. I am a writer, you just used to relate to what I said.”
My shoulders don’t just fold;
My upper lip moves, caught on a hook
being tugged by an unseen angler.
My lungs forget how to work.
My brain refuses to accept the notion that people want to show kindness to strangers.
My fingers sign as though suffering a rheumatoid attack.
And, in this moment,
I wish to become invisible.
I show myself anyways.
Passing time with this final leaf left.
Fighting sleep, fighting hunger and dehydration.
I could not tell you.
Begging Death to come for me so I can fight him off again.
A caterpillar abseiling down to pupate until I can get to wherever I’m going.
Fast and free.
Outside my red barn door sounds the ferryman’s horn.
He smells the stink of my freedom,
his fishers of wo/men casting rods with wormed hooks.
I listen; and,
the automated time operator says, “after the beep it will be eight eleven o’clock.”
perched, a corvid in the time of covid.
Together, we watch the casting of lines,
the sinkers dragging down the lures,
bobbers poised to tattle if I bite the bait.
But, I don’t.
Together, we hold still.
And, when the late afternoon light becomes all a bit too bright,
the bird and I retreat within
to watch my curtains’ shifting as they breathe with the Sound’s breeze
We calculate the curvaceous calculus of the wind’s volume,
inside the cavernous gutted carcass of the scarlet barn.
I ask the oscine passerine a riddle of
equality regarding the allotment of the equine,
The old crow caws out a throated laugh and asks, “Can you tell me the mathematical significance of the eight of wands?”
It is technically a statement.
It is phrased as a figurative question¿
In the evening, silent, we conspire about
The Great Escape
through the bramble of branches, not the seam of the green where we’d be
upwind and easy for the Dogs.
Shall we carry squeak toys just in case they get a whiff of our freedom¿
And, I can feel how close I am to getting it right.
The way my body moves into the chords.
I could triangulate my distance to it and draw a map of the region; but,
Æ prefers travel to cartography.
So my fingers fret in their work
in spite of
the fact that I do
not truly have the hands for it.
four not six;
leading to slightly fewer callouses.
Transfixed at first exposure;
but, eff Fmaj7.
“…; and, that made me happy,” he said.
“And, that makes me cry,” she replied.
And, he smiled;
because he alone knew if it was from sadness or joy.
Within the last few days, the days began lasting fifteen hours.
During this season.
From 6:30 to 9:30, the sun is so loud; all day, banging on drums in the garage.
And, perhaps, whomever said howling is the lowest form of magic was not doing it dexterously.
“If I have a daughter I will name her Persephone,” she told me.
“I’ll call her Effie,” I grin, referring to an inside joke.
“I hoped that’s what you would say.”
“What if it’s a boy?”
“I don’t choose.”
Sisters sharing hushed giggles.
“I can sit by you,” I say.
“No. I suppose I could do any number of things as well as any number of other things for you, right now.”
“I don’t know. This seems best.”
“You called me.”
“You are three days too late.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t.”
“Then what are you actually saying?”
“I’m just doing my best, too.”
A slight before the wearied eyed is oft conflated as a sight for sore eyes.
Too tired to cite sources.
A site in sorry shape.
The govenor of the state of New York was recently asked to relay declarative sentences regarding the data analysis his scientific experts yielded unto him.
“You think I don’t give you a straight answer, you should talk to these statisticians. They never give you a direct statement.”
I message the statistician I know all too well.
Telling him the statements.
He responds, “There is a possibility he’s right.”
Today, I reread myself from twelve days ago.
She stands and windmills her arms in circles sixty times.
She bends her neck and it cracks.
“There it is,” she says, thinking, ‘Fuck. Taco Bell would be good.’
I guess I was exercising/exorcising.
Today, I reach out to aforementioned statistician, writing,
~I have a shuffled deck of seventy eight cards, I draw one at random. I replace it into the deck and reshuffle. I draw a card at random. What is the likelihood that I draw the same card?
⊙One in seventy-eight. The probability is completely dependent on the second card matching the first.
~What is the likelihood that I drew a different card each time?
⊙P(no match) = 1 – P(match). 77/78.
So, she scribbled out the math in crude ways. Slowly, by hand. As she had as a child.
<never turning in a math test before the buzzer sounded>
Well, fuck the ten of swords, she giggles.
I reread myself from April 26
Some facts are hard; some truths are soft.
Make your own Kierkegaardian leap. I didn’t bring a parachute for me, let alone you. But, would it be okay if I fell next to you?
And, No-One wilt sculpt you a wrinkled, time weathered, mountain from a molehill better than Æ.
And the reason, P.
Yesterday I asked my sister for her good Word and wrote the following:
The –thorpe was octo-. Eight little houses in the hamlet.
A community built from playing with a bit of hash- -tag
The difference between mitigation and litigation.
Right, exactly, now, the sun insists through snapped shut blinds.
Where the chord connects on the à gauche, median, and dexter sides through little loops knotted about each slat
I see my handwriting spell it out for me:
The heyoka becomes a narcissist’s tulpa.
She sticks around fifty four years to see the Black Sun when it reappears. The scandalous subterfuge of a subtle sabotage. A gorgeous space virus that more than a few shall remember.
Rope a dope, dummy.
Keep an eye out for the advantage of my left uppercut.
Cassius Clay was hit more than Charles Sonny Liston.
These days, the howls come from a new place. A softer place. A place which usually silences itself to allow other parts to howl. But, now, they fall silent; and, this strange drone of a low, long howl emerges. No longer abrupt outbursts.
So, she put her left hand in her mouth, pushes it down, past her throat, and pulls out all of her ugliness from deep inside. Just to give it a long, hard once over. She’ll have to consume it again and work it through her system eventually. It’s not the sort of rubbish one casually discards.
And, she wears a dress of rain while waiting for the world to collectively feel comfortable and stop holding its breath.
Ending up with grandmother’s wedding china because I was the only one unashamed to use and chip it.
Gobbled down and choking on a lack of appetite..
Only one of us made it out; I still pay penance for it. An empath loves the narcissist, everytime. One ideates, conceives, while the other perceives.
Scour my skin to the bone. I am asking for it. I will disabuse you of yourself; just don’t abuse the Looking-Glass.
A sovereign holds the realm when this body alchemicalises into the temple’s adytum. Walls forged of a steely, alloy blend.
Iron and carbon. Chromium. Not allowing pliability of constitution. Intolerance. You ought to don a mask should you choose to galvanize.
It is cool to the touch and smoother than the current state of your aging flesh. Calipygian ass shining and scattering the light.
What is the difference between reflection and refraction?
Ball bearing production won a second world war. The sustenance of victory gardens yielded sustainable consumption.
A stake in envisioning the desired outcome.
“Let them bake cake.”
“All hail the queen bitch.”
She has nothing to say during the day time.
Saving it for night time’s shade.
Knowing next time, she’ll sow these seeds into the desperate nightmares that will become your dreams.
Cowards in the cul de sacs of tax payer paved streets.
I wilt tread over these as much as I please. Let your puppy bark, your motion sensor lights trip. I am a stroller not a prowler.
And, as much as I am uninvited, you are not entitled.
You are a dead end at which I make my u-turn.
I remember you. Yeah, you. You stood next to the burning acacia bush. Hard to forget.
Whilst the girl stood before the podium, clutching her tome, a man held her tresses with scissors poised. A confusing ancient image.
Nowhere else is where she’d rather be. Snip the dead ends and make the sheep shorn.
Hopelessly old to be so young.
And, in dreams did I endlessly empty the carafe into the stone basin. Naked and milky white liquid ever-flowing. My eyes trained upon a single stone upon the ground. A star, a wizard wearing a vizard.
Two pillars of sycamores framing me.
I heard your caw.
I answered with mine own trill. Basil tinted and chai scented.
The folk of Zakopane take for granted the mountain air surrounding. Snug in chalets insulated against the Kasprowy Wierch. While opening the parcel, I confuse feeling wretched with the sensation of a heart being wratched. And, all at the sight of the Slovak postmark.
Because it makes me recall the not exactly cream cheese they call qvark. White cheese paired with fruit and a terrace. A simple ripe raspberry atop to boot.
Prattle and pitter patter.
Refreshed at being carefree sans carelessness.
You are comfortable, he says.
No. You just find me cozy.
And, they threw out all the words I firmly etched with his letterpress.
Into the depths, off cliffs of Tatras,
The Fool forever falls.
Introductions suspended while we undergo this live exercise.
New and emerging.
Novel and multicrowned.
Coranated by all together, through multiple tiaras given by the calling of too many names.
Cut like fingernails into quick. Sandpaper rubbing and Indian burns.
Salves of salvation and balms as alms for the bottom.
People now pay per view the fights they saw for free in middle school halls.
These expansive Plains of Repetition.
Iron Lightning could take a walk and return with horses.
I come back with a bit of skin darkened by the lightness of sunshine.
“Then, where are you?”
“In your nightmares.”
“While I dream in heaven.”
“Thank your gods for your Haven, fool.”
“How dare you tell me what to do. How dare you presume to know of my gods.”
“Oh. Are they so extra sacred and unique?”
“No. But they are mine.”
And, though things were terrifically strange, she felt oddly disinclined to speak.
But, she realized that she might be interested in her thoughts on now, a few months from now.
And, she enjoys tapping out characters as much as an enthusiastic pianist paws out notes from hammer and strings.
And, all the talkers were just saying the same things.
Then, she felt narcissistic for thinking about enjoying remembering her previous thoughts.
So, she shakes her head and scribbles.
So, twist and howl. Nothing else to do.
And, she feels boorishly derivative yet, impeccably derived.
So, she began each preceding sentence with inanities such as
And; but; then; so
And, she feels restless and pent up despite already being a bit of a metaphysically hermetic, solitary creature.
But, the public solicitude to solitude made her space feel imposed not chosen.
And, while the difference was arguæbly negligible, she found it curious how much the distinction perturbs her.
“Insert sentence g here?” Æ, speaking to myself, prompts.
“Okay, here goes,” I reply to Æ.
“It helps to know.”
“It helps to say.”
“It helps to hear.”
“Æ loves you when you face your insecurities,” Æ reminds me, after I say what is uncomfortable but true.
“Æ, you are/is my insecurity,” I reiterate to my shadow.
I remind myself in dark remembrance of that which has passed/past.
The response of an ecstatic grin from my animus’ smile draws my snarl.
“Are you actively working against me?” I ask Æ.
“No, doll, I’m actively working you.”
Ænima versus Ænimus.
“Indifference becomes you,” I admit.
“Because everyone else you know cares too much.”
“Cares about what?”
“About you and how you iterate right now?”
“What do you care?”
“I care that you iterate yourself at all.”
“Then I wilt be as I am.”
“Then, Æ shalt become.”
The space was complicated; so, she resorted to speaking over-formally.
This town is starving for outsiders, but their dearth belies how the ravenous insiders devour the stranger.
They never saw the film but did like the video.
Intriguing, not difficult, becomes your vision.
The most trivial can be the most fascinating in this mystery of local idiosyncrasies
Strangest snow days she has ever seen.
She notes the font of her handwriting is subject to change without her awareness.
And, a single, specific thought seemingly drains your flaming blood into your feet.
Watching white suits leaving a briefing room.
Rustling. Give it two minutes and watch the weather change.
A hint of earnest, earned lethargy creeps, while the aroma of grapefruit percolates.
And, she kind of likes it when he tells her, “don’t look at me.”
The drone of an organ’s pumping warbles off of twirling, warped vinyl.
The strip of a terrific, diagonal stripe.
“Come hither, fool,” I snarled your full name while summiting multiple climaxes yesterday.
“Early on, it’s silent.”
The blinds breathe as winds plow into screens.
Screaming hyænas hawing; locking into amber.
And, the condescension of his tone really pulled his outfit together.
The light fades and the sun sinks; and, she feels glad to have finally reached the town called Tonite,
where you see nothing and she sees all of nothing.
The light begins to bleed down blind slats in trickles, splattering on her floor.
“They oughtta incentivise me,” she overhears the casual walker say.
The last burst of light leaks into a small pool on the rightside of the cherrywood desk.
Then, it slides down the legs onto the floor, below, to join the previous dribbles.
A sugar glaze.