At times

The rain finally fell; I missed it.

An unpacked wound left agape, to breathe in awe, and slowly heal.

A little thing festered, so I had them cut it out.

And, sometimes, I like him enough to fear he could wreck me by letting me see myself as he sees me.

A foundation. A dream of a house of cards.

The foundation will fall before you and you will then become a dream to someone else.

A sweet one and a night-mare.

Bed bugs and freshly laundered sheets.

The keel remains, but no one is at the rudder.

Those secret chiefs are here. Sometimes, I think they come to me for a laugh. They know I know; they know you know it’s going to be okay.

You are welcome, but don’t tease; because, the words are over flowing. Bubble and bursting.

Cassandra’s Cavern closes, that spot above the fourth rib.

Cicatriz of a wildling.

Whispers in my ears.

Strings of random words.

Panoramas streaming alien multitudes of locales.

I hold still.

I try to listen and see.

It fleets and my mind yells, “Stop suffering.”

“I didn’t think I was,” my non-mind replies.

I dream of a day spent by a lighthouse. Watching seals. We return home.

“Good. Your skin still takes the sun,” he says, brushing my cheekbone with his finger.

My eyes go hard into his. I feel strange. I wonder are you some sort of vampire, pale one? It’s okay. I prefer a vamp to a peacock.

Suspense and suspension; the endearment of a man in suspenders.

A giggle hushed by louder laughter in the dark issuing forth from a little one with the lecherous eye.

We recently swapped places as easily as we used to swap clothes.

A white cotton bralette with no underwire.

A wood chipper left running, unattended.

A burger joint that grinds its own meat.

The sharpening of my axe.

Split nails and feet like cloven hooves. Shesatyr running.

And, my fingers begin to invent strange signals through the bending and overlap of digits as a dog pushes its snout into the corner, trying to become invisible. I watch while I act like I don’t notice.

A divine spark. The yetzirah. Multiple bodies operating on multiple planes.

Want births intent. Breaking of want produces freedom of will. The ability to intend.

I lost myself at sea a few days ago; let me know if you spot me.

I’ve a hole in my side and there’s a hole in the world where all the people used to go.

There’s a hole in Sam Stone’s arm and there’s an Angel who still flies from Montgomery.

Click-click-click goes the capped end of my Bic, against my thumbnail.

A familiar territory. A region you know well enough by cartography. Declension and longitude; elevation and latitude.

You must act without awareness at times.

ewe made toast

Sometimes, I read you backwards.

Starting with the final paragraph and stalking you back,

coda to prelude.

Because, I’m less interested in how you end up and more interested in

how you found yourself at your present conclusion.

I want to, again, layer on clothes so that I may take my time undressing in front of you.

I want to watch your eyes.

I will sing like the birds enjoying spring outside my open, bedroom window.

And, my face flushes and turns so scarlet that I could swear I am fevered.

I am not, but I swear under my breath, anyways.

I see all those slant rhymes you presume pass most by.

The repeated use of an odd word.

A woman giggles while noting she had to look it up.

I giggle, because the same woman said the same thing a year ago. The last time you spoke the Word.

I recall you as easily as ad jingles and pop songs.

It becomes embarrassing, but I’m not ashamed despite not being proud.

It smells like when ewe made toast.

And the scent memory, turns me into an overflowing ewer.

Catalyzing another metaphysical catharsis.

Hot tears spill. Oil slicks slipping down geological formations of cheekbones.

I look sad but I don’t feel as such.

I feel rapt.

I simply feel.

Make your libations and lower your vessel that I may fill it, vassal.

desire to manipulate matter.

Two of them were here; and, then, they weren’t.

And, she never met either but she knew them both.

It made her feel sad; it made her efforts feel useless.

And, both feelings felt indulgent, so she resented the emotions, to boot.

“That’s really irksome.”

“That I’m unafraid to say, ‘I don’t know’ ? “

“You could speculate.”

“But, if I did not tell you, ‘I don’t know’ before speculating then I devalue the currency of my words at large.”

In American English, the most beloved sentence laid upon ears may be, “That’s my baby.”

The refrigerator moans through its vocal coils like a horny impotent cooling out.

It boils down to a teleological desire to manipulate matter.

I’m not your adversary; I just enjoy being adversarial.

Call me ‘the devil’s advocate,’

pleas/e.

Pleased to meet you.

I got no-name to guess.

if you fold shoulders

Pulling in deep to hear him say, half asleep, “I can do it.”

Can you do it on command; can you do it without hands?

I mumble, “give me a modicum of good sleep.”

Head nuzzling under his chin.

“Let’s doze. The world wants me awake; but, I’m not ready to face it.”

A hand moves to rest on an ass.

I hear a man’s bicycle’s spokes whir by my open window and he hums beautifully as he rides.

I slip from the bed’s cocoon, to part and peak through my blinds’ slats; but, he’s already breezed by.

The neighbors putter in the shared garden, a new bird feeder being installed.

I get dressed to do an investigative prowl around my block before coffee.

As I walk, I understand that I am created by intersections of energetic threads being woven together by a macro loom.

And, I remember: if you fold shoulders and make yourself small, mija, that is how people will treat you.

Avoid.

And, a voice in a void is worthless without resonance. Show me your panacea, boy.

Echoes of Sette in cassettes.

Pure white noise is the sound of a resonant channel chattering in the background. Before we had silicon and screens, they used the rubbing of crickets’ legs, the guttural thrust of a frog’s croak. Working like a little whirling dervish screw driving its way into foreheads.

And, I return. And, the caffeine calls. And, my pour over waits for the water to boil.

successfully arching

Sentinel surveillance of the syndromic and the asymptomatic.

A coalesence of convalescence conjuncting with a tyranny of averages.

Handmade beds; and, piles of filled in journals.

The area below a curve

; &,

a line above a

word.

Gating shepards watching Anafortas exploiting the incomplete mantle of Parcival’s effulgence.

The ecstatic trauma of successfully arching the black swan of your black sheep dreams is becoming the dog chasing a squirrel. Knowing not what to do if it actually caught it.