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.

an egad of e’s.

Entropy can not be excised from energy.

Now, we feel the onus on us.

Let them wear those ascots and eat their escargot;

and, I shall send this erogenous epistle that is delivered whilst tip toeing through brambles of sharp thistles.

An endemic epidemic extolling the benefits of the sentence of exile.

“What would the congregation think if they could see you now?” she asks.

“I would care not,” he replies.

Epistemic and affixed.

A’human energy existant and

avoidant.

Avoid, ant.

A void, ant.

therein may we

Doll, you’ve got it confused.

You are completely vulnerable when you forget to be in the-Moment.

You merely feel vulnerable when you find the-Moment and discover you had forgotten it.

You were wandering through the Meadow of What-If.

The Marshes of Why-I-Oughta.

Your home is in Right-Now and you never leave.

You keep forgetting.

Mountains do not need to be seen to largely loom.

A pond does not need to exist continually.

Seasonal droughts come before

the flooding of Springtime

with its garish blooms and hissyfit storms.

Cycles of forgetting to remember to not forget,

abiding by celestial currents among the degrees of inclination about the axis.

As pokes retch,

a spoke stretches,

hissing,

from the rim’s circumference to the center axle.

Therein may we all meet.

the remains.

The day the dome of the sky fell, the sky had been pure and light blue.

Then it shattered, falling like bits of flaky white about a shaken snow globe.

Slowly sliding down, the cocoon broke as glass.

And though, the visual trauma, momentarily, made everyone’s impatience subside,

the Universe cared not, in spite of everyone, everywhere thinking It did.

“You seem eerily confident since the event,” he said, nine days after.

“The sky has fallen. My insecurity shattered. Confidence is all that remains,” she replies.

She takes coffee here

The burn of the glare of a mal-humored bend of sunlight

coming through slats of blinds.

Water boiling in a pot before being poured over the Hummingbird blend.

Coffee soon with heavy creamer.

Thighs still sore from quaking.

Ass still sore from tightening in nervous tension.

Cheeks still sore from smiling so hard for so long.

(And, she looks for some sort of transition here,)

And, finding none,

She moves to the

Room under the moon.

ill-suited.

He looked terrifically out of place, dressed like that, here on the trail.

She was a bit irritated at the utter distraction of him.

Yet, he was fascinating.

But, she was trying to take a walk through the woods down to the fish ladder of the old mill creek; and, here was a man in a three piece suit, postured in repose on the sopping bank, as though prostrating before some ancient pagan god.

And, from across the salmon’s spawning pond, she espied that while his necktie was perfectly knotted, the color and pattern of it did not suit his suit.

Not in the slightest.

Off-rack; Tailor made. Beholden; Bespoke

He just sat there. Brutally still, Unnaturally, there in the tall grass.

Loafers in the mud. Simply wearing all the wrong clothes.

She imagines he must be a terrible dancer.

And, she suddenly wants to interrupt him and ask for a dance.

Talk of weather

“Sunlight yesterday; dreary today,” he says.

I tease, “Oh, stop with the dismal diablerie, cad. It’s not gloomy. It’s simply a winter gloaming.”

“That’s not what I meant”, he says.

“Oh, I just thought you were awful fond of talking about the weather,” I panto, innocently.

” ‘Awfully’,” he mumbles.

“You are awfully fond of talking about weather?” I giggle, in mock with brown eyebrows arched.

“No. You meant to say ‘awfully fond’. Adverb not the adjective,” he says.

I howl in laughter, “Be careful telling me what I ‘meant to say’; because, you have no idea what I intend.”

~

There once was a boy.

And, there he was until he became.

He held himself still. Held fast and listened.

There did he discover he was himself

all over again.

She smiles, unobserved, from the corner.