A’bridged nuzzling.

The sun made like a runaway today.

Let me lay you on your back, bare.

Crawl up on you like a curious, hungry animal,

and occupy myself with sniffing your scent.

Smells of you.

Because, the smell of the skin below your wrist

is not the smell of the skin stretching over your ankles

is not the smell of the thumping skin above your jugular

nor that of the skin behind your ear.

It will not smell of the skin between your legs

which will not smell as does the stench of your armpit.

Or the smell of your open mouth.

And, my incessant humming

will become Sygyt.

The strangely drone of polyphonic overtone singing.

And once I’m done,

I would pad circles on you

, like a dog preparing to sleep

, of tossing and turning

, and

, wrapping round you.

For warm comfort.

Finding the right proper position of

a deep winter nuzzle.

Vision of the 36th Ellipsis.

Thirty five completed ellipses.

Comprising the matricies of now.

Begin compiling the thirty-sixth,

presently. Of today.

And, my eyes first narrow before going wide as the tableau reveals.

Speak to me mine sheep and mine mæstyre satyr.

No malice shalt invade my mind or sour myself,

yet, still can I sense your maleficent power

comingle.

Why do you howl thusly? And, do you know that

this has Æ heard before.

I want, too.

I want two.

I want to.

They have nothing if you less the faun

who dies thrice in triangular trinities

allowing

you to circumnavigate her through triangulation.

As drawing a five pointed star is not drawing a

six,

seven,

eight,

nine,

pointed one.

Quit your baying sheep for this shearing is not for you.

Æ, too, is a beastly, sacred dæmon,

sweetly contained in this gossamer and goosedown

Conspicuously unsuspicious.

Inauspicious.

I fear not your moment of judgement on this howliday. Thou shalt never judge me as harshly as

Æ have previously taken myself whilst in captivity.

Snarl, smile. Do you, now, see?

Why is ritual an honor to behold

?

You reply: because it should be so.

You could stop traffic dressed suchly.

Do you not know a pedestrian has paths to

right of way.

As I jaywalk onward,

across paths,

I find my head adorned with a sea holly wreath, in tribute to unknown;

see how its roots grew long and serpentine over æges ago

so that it may adorn without being torn

from the earth?

Unplucked.

Worn before; to be worn again.

I draw the force and send it mine in reply.

Starling a’wing, chasing behind me.

You awoke in a pond full of dead fish(,) talking.

And, only dead fish go with the tide.

Of the five streams pouring forth, sea-ward,

one unnaturally flows upstream to BayTown’s Strange-House.

The starling now a’lights on my left shoulder.

Worn as I wear the stow of the red dragon in early autumn.

A dance sought

That which transpires behind that which appears.

Captivating verging upon captive taking.

I’ve taught everyone No Thing.

I’ve told No Body everything.

Bones tapping.

Dropping skeletons to read the bones strewn,

recalling those cries from the crowded street.

Exuberance of the hysterical normalcy.

I dare you in this kindly sinuous challenge of tendons and ligaments.

A pale, dark-horse rides in, unbidden.

Flared nostrils from a face concealing a mirror of mind thinking:

If the dæmon would seek, Æ would ask a dance.

Feathers of eyelashes

Even in dreams, I remain yours.

I have come for none other.

The smell of chai spice pours skyward from the pot of boiling water.

Vapour blessing the room like sage humbly burned.

Pealing recalling things and those missed.

Blushing cheeks and bitten lip.

°

I have seen the city skies from on high; they light up like an introspective brain’s neural network.

Psst. Wake up.

Pushing my nose deeply into your neck,

to inhale; get your smell.

I wish to entwine the two;

Make the aroma of chai ever tied to the scent of you.

I remind myself to not forget this, mine intent,

whilst batting this piece of your thin skin with

the feathers of my eyelashes.

rock skipping

A rock skips on its toes’ tips

across Looking-Glass Lake.

It is true that what you do not know can hurt you;

and, in doing so, cause you pain you do not rightly sensate.

You just know it hurts.

Onkwehónwe {ref. Kanyen’keha}.

°

And, the phrase, “nobody cares” set the captives free and captivated the enslavers.

°

Your apophasis disinclines my disposition towards you.

“That would be my preference,” says B., the scrivner.

So. Let him. He simply wishes to copy the original documents into his longhand.

°

Pedantic pandering over over-excitabilty.

A knockout; A decision; A draw.

°

You’re not like most people.

You’re right. I’m only one person, not the multiples comprising most. Extraneously speaking, I distrust the correlations derived from “most people” statistics. They never draw from a supple, sufficient, sample population.

°

Elevate your base

because

despite not proud,

you can remain unashamed.

Æ ramble.

Impatiently spinning my pen, furiously fast yet without any malice,

up and down.

Up

&

Down.

Dropping it like the mic after I just spat the hottest sixteen of my life.

Verbalizing subtext.

Indicating that

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.

Purposefully inexorable.

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

my mind-reading.

Like a hot bath.

Like that sudden ringing in my left ear.

Fleeting.

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

a spoke.

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.

Wordsmithing.

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?

Poliphilio?

Marco polo?

What draws forth this expression my face makes for

only kNow-One?

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.

Dreamt of déjà vu .

I saw it while dreaming of the restaurant.

Seating parties of varying sizes to tables;

Assembling a dynamic loop of a jigsaw puzzle.

Chess like square-dancing.

Moving quickly whilst not appearing to hurry.

A skeletal, thin, blonde woman wears a strange stow made of scraps of many types of fabrics.

When she stands and puts her hands on her hips,

the effect is she appears like a plush, red heart.

When she appears as such,

those I’m seating, I seat without menus.

They are different and seem to be unperceived by the menued others.

A menuless and short but muscular man, fiftyish perhaps,

looks at me,

as my stride slides alongside

his seat at a table for two.

He leans his neck back slowly as I approach.

I stretch my torso forward and past my legs;

{anticipatory}

I crane my neck.

I watch his head twist a dramatic 90° as I find myself directly aside him.

I am mid stride and passing him by

and, somehow when he parts his licked lips, I find my mouth upon his,

four eyes smiling like two idiots.

A fast pair of deep kisses.

I withdraw, not missing a step.

I am shocked at how seamlessly and seemingly naturally, I warmly dropped my professionalism.

I intuit any other diner or employee perceptive enough to have noticed this exchange, would have found themselves smiling.

I am stunned at the strange pride felt at

his bidding my kiss so publically, innocently, and nonchalantly.

And, within this very non-lucid dream,

I felt dream jà vu.

I’d not met him before; but I

knew him still.