full moons

I always watch the cycles of the moon.

They pull the tides of my feminine theatre.

Waking at six in the morn to watch the Worm moon squiggle to its setting.

Eagerly awaiting the egg moon aka the pink moon.

I put the snake’s oil over my face.

I slick back my long hair because, you know, the devil’s in there.

A Good Friday.

A potato casserole with green onions and sour cream.

Comfort.

A lamb wilt

Be grilled.

A key.

Lime.

And, what frightens is often the deepest kindness.

A casted shadow is dark, but only because it derives from the sunlight’s strike.

Embrace.

piquet

He moves slowly.

Brow wiped against triceps brachii.

Dewy and salty. Deep inhalation.

Restrained.

Wild hairs blowing in the humid breeze.

Turned inward. Toes pointing towards the other foot’s toes.

Face downwards, yet eyes casting up.

Observant. Quiet spoken.

A grin never breaking into a toothy smile.

Piqued.

Piquet.

New

As one dies, so is one reborn.

With an eye on the sparrow and his one eye on mine.

And, the singers of hymns look at me sideways, and the modernity looks on with eyes rolled at me.

Stranded between two sonars.

But, know what?

I sing because I am happy,

I sing because I’m glad.

I sing out of key, yet, wholeheartedly.

Because I am free and here is spring.

Hesse and Mann

Therein does the majesty of existence fill my heart.

Words re read.

Albums relistened to before the w/hole becomes the sink/ing w/hole.

Words whispered as memories forgotten but felt like meteoric impact

striking land surface.

We are many.

They are few.

And, you likely misunderstood.

Recollection of the woods of a mill creek coupled with a salmon’s ladder,

no longer used.

Clever fish.

Not you; but, but who I used

to be.

A joke named Syd Arthur reduces me to my knees.

Hesse and Mann.

And, me with determined purposelessness.

open secrets

Eco, Umberto…

A whisper from these lips confesses an open secret:

There is no secret.

All the mystery schools and Eleusinian plays:

Yes, no

their secret is not concealed.

Mythos.

The magic is that you assume it is hidden.

When seemingly unobtainable,

you wilt become willing to work for it.

But, what ritual teaches, you already know.

If you put in the work, your mind will show

Ewe.

But, solitary work lacks the energy of community.

Emergence of thinking in tandem.

A breath practice practiced alone is not the same as the communal.

I think therefore I am is now becoming:

I am seen therefore I am.

I shall believe it when I see it?

No dear.

You wilt see it when you believe.

This is the basic magic.

Simple reading shares,

what ritual prepares

to gift

Inquiring minds.

Worry less over initiation because they’d be lucky to have your machination.

Three slightly beaten eggs.

Heavy syrup and pecans.

Three slightly beaten eggs.

A pie baked in lieu

An attempt to explain

all of the most basic ceremony and

rites of common society which I have naught

Experienced.

Imperfect kindness tempered with ignorance and an introverted nature.

Making myne own misunderstood rituals of Devotion.

Lacking. Paltry offering.

What I hold not in emotional availability, I make up with myne ability to stare at the sky and dream.

Appealing to others until experienced for a longer term.

A mystic certainly understands classical romanticism;

but, of the contemporary meaning of romantic, often feeling inadequate and misunderstood.

Leaving everything on the field whilst appearing like Æ did not come to play the Game at all.

Adrift in timelessness without the ability to connect in the contemporary.

Moving through time backwards to understand at death

the joy that others missed while they experienced

It.

Heavy bursts of ecstasies that leave others lacking It in the in~between.

A day spent on the back porch

Spring is truly here.

By myne own watch do I so declare.

A day spent on the back porch secures this truth more accurately than these poor weathermen trying to read the tea leaves to predict things, often incorrectly.

Prophecy is not the equivalent of a best guess.

Yet, I respect their need to speak in ways deterministic.

They have a job; I have the simple luxury of looking into the picturesque.

(At least for another couple of weeks.)

Cottonwood seeds flutter like dandelions wished upon.

The three baby squirrels left the carriage house for the first time; and, explored the oak tree.

I watched the parents build their den drey weeks ago.

The birds sing in ecstatic glee.

Perching, en masse, preening, showing off for potential mates.

Being new here, I do not know their avian names; but, upon reflection, that seems right proper.

Even the insects cannot resist landing on me in joyous greeting.

I blow them off with a gentle breeze from my lungs.

The songs and chitters fill the sky and every bit of the ether between.

The Chinese Tallow tree drops its cotton~like downy seed.

It is not truly that so-called tree; but, being new here, it is the closest descriptive name that I know to call thee.

Upon reflection, that seems rite and proper.

Because to see does not truly require name~calling.

The pitch reaches its peak at four, before mellowing as the sun approaches the horizon’s seam.

Two young boys play in the alleyway. One on a bike chasing the other who is on foot.

They are twins. They swap places frequently.

I could show you well framed pictures; I could make this description more becoming and literarily.

But, who cares when s/he is enjoying the first day of spring.

It is finally warm; and, as I thaw, I understand that I knew not how frozen I had become.

a stretch before the rebeginning

My cauldron bubbles in its boil. A sacred prayer to the dead man chicken in my pot.

And, the last three years have been such an eternity that any song both brings me to proudly stand on toes with limbs extending past 90° to Earth’s curvature.

Whilst also reducing me to tears without my understanding why.

The legacy and curse of a dancer’s ballet-cy.

Words invented while subterfuge may whisper context.

Lost on most of my friendly vigilantes.

And whilst a boiling cauldron sounds dramatic, it is nothing more than a beautiful breast in spices, the most important of which being garlic.

Whole cloves and bay leaves.

Magic so simply esoteric that many mistake it for being erudite.

Just read, sweet things.

Nothing more simplistically

Put

Into a proper place.

And, the uninitiated may unabashedly speak volumes whilst claiming the Heyoka status.

When did admitting yourself to be The Fool become so unseemingly.

Chicken nervously almost cooked and begging shredding.

And the act requires meticulous tediousness.

Yet, if you want to consume a sacrificed carcass should anything less be expected?

And I miss the Jamaican aroma. Unallowed here. But, the rite of alcohol pales.

The breast resists shredding.

Respect for sacrifice;

so I rest

before the rebeginning

perhaps you cannot see; but they shine brightly to me

The clouds here move quickly tonight.

The stars, they move more slowly. Less capriciously.

To the tock and tick of their own steadfast Pendulum.

I watch the cover of both refuse to be stagnant.

I count their changes by the beating of myne heart.

The truest metronome.

The clock I carry with me until evermore;

and, should it cease?

Well, I would surely be the last one to know.

thoust draws thine

You want to see my shape cut?

I care not.

Can you tie a proper knot?

Does your patience stand the test

of sailors hoisting masts?

When this I don, it is my pleasure.

Yours, sir? It matters naught.

I know it pleases thee, such from this do I draw your reaction.

Lie down. Lay down. Bow at my altar.

For what I do is for me and not for thee.

Cowards of necessity cower in my wake;

and, from me, you produce not a single shake.

Make yourself and leave me to be what Æ wilt.

My impatience becomes me and makes the Fool of thee.

Know your place because I find mine sans shame.

Hush.

You speak of power; but, from me thoust draws thine.

hot-rolled steel

The difference between assume and presume.

What is the difference between you and me?

What you think you want is an excuse to relieve yourself of duty to self.

To achieve is a perpetul disability.

To be is the zenith.

And, I thank some unnamed God that I dream.

The Skellig formations whisper to me in the form of three single leaves rustling.

Dragging across coarse cement. Reminiscent.

I miss the Olympics, those ranging mountains.

I could kiss clean streets now that I have none.

Entreaty.

I miss being the small fish in the massive sea.

I feel too big presently.

A line of cans rails the brick wall, confirming it to be so.

Trying to pass another meaningless test.

Drilling until perfection be found.

Reaching the offer I do not wish to take.

On a train, the quiet car, where I truly wish to be.

In silence and rocked by steel rails until fastly asleep.

And, a rabbit makes its home beneath this porch and me.

I have sprinkled bread crumbs when I should have spread my spinach.

Make your hutch and hop around me.

A plea.

The wind blows open the door.

I say, “thank you, but what for?”

survived

“Oh my, my, what of the raven? Is it you?” I am asked.

“No. I am quite simply not into carrion,” is my reply.

“What are you in to?”

“Being the last bird to leave before the storm; then, being the first to return.”

“An ibis?”

“Yes, which is also a Phœnix.”

“How so?”

“A Phœnix appears to rebirth itself from a flame’s ashes; but, it is illusion. Everyone fled the mælstorm. I never died, you left; and, upon your return, you assumed me to be reborn.”

“The truth is then?”

“I neither left nor died. I simply survived.”

Say hello just as you once waved goodbye.

silence’s blame

I respect Silence’s blame; I miss thee just the same.

From me does the Stillness urge a disquieting benevolence coalescing into

this grievance.

The plasmatic burst of a coronal flare turns to a sickly flame’s green glare.

The Universe wrought itself from naught and therein do we return,

Unto a new Form.

A Thing will fall apart only to be remade into a newly fitted part.

The queen of Magnets insists on polarity because Friction is necessary.

Heresy and hearsay do not become me. Yet are they my Necessity.

Shed the veil and show thine face.

I wilt hold your place.

So tumble and flail. Howl like a feral dog into your Fog.

This peculiar part is ever of less Proportion to the W/hole.

And, the peace thou dost seek, upon being found, will be abhorred.

Until evermore.

be

Picayune and jejune.

Still your tongue, little one.

I take notes of that which you do not say.

Do as thou wilt and keep silent about what might may.

Be.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

A finger over closed lips subverts avoidable mishaps.

The first step to alchemize gold is not brash.

It is bold.

a medicant

My patron saint must be Augustine for I have nothing to give but The(se) Confessions.

Tolle lege.

When you find meaning in everything, everything suddenly becomes overwhelming.

Sannyasi is a medicant whose anagram corresponds to [dictamen].

Dictamen en Español/a equals opinion. In English, it is a pronouncement. Rule.

The plural? Dictamina.

I am æ’scribe, a vessel, a medium.

My sacred Contract.

Rubbing this pebble until it becomes a philosopher’s stone. The Great Work.

The rite of writing.

I know the goat, Baphomet, but only casually; yet, s/he asks me to call they/them by another sobriquet.

S/he asks me to play my favorite game, inquiring “What is the difference between

[CAVALRY] and [CALVARY]?”

“How very cavalier this question is which Y’all ask of this cavalier servente.”

They laugh; because, I have responded with a statement asking them to acknowledge the difference between two very different things.

“Parçigal sounds presumptuously pretentious,” they reply.

“She has not sounded at all, in ages, seemingly.”

the derivation of.

I try to catch him; but, I continue to miss him.

Once you gift a sobriquet, you lose all control.

Wolves in winter howling at the moon,

then listening with no other purpose than to hear.

The call and response of a preponderance of silence.

This is an answer.

Echoes across the canyon.

A loneliness in a crowd.

Wanting to be in rooms where the players lick their wounds, where the second hand smoke makes your lungs hurt the following day.

A reminder you are alive because it brings you closer to the stone and farther from the forceps.

▪︎

I move through time backwards.

I am younger the more I age.

No mere howls.

Magic so high it is all but taken for granted.

The line where sky meets land is unclear.

There is a hidden seam somewhere.

▪︎

An ochlophobia of ochlocracy, along with the oddment and its odoriferous.

Œnomel stings across my nostrils and coats my throat.

And, I taste the œvre of his lifetime.

A thick honey cloys.

The best people are salted with a touch of unrespectability:

too much disgusts,

just enough delights, and,

none at all renders bland.

▪︎

The harrowing of hell taught us how nature abhors a vaccum.

Soteriology does not necessitate an orthodoxy.

I hear you child. Let me show you alchemy is mathematical.

The derivation of a unit circle before the golden ratio.

asking a seashell for a sermon.

And, the girl laughed because she made a small error in her breathing exercise;

but, she kept her rhythm and regarded the incorrect exhalation as a ‘wrong’ key struck on a piano.

“I must keep to the tempo. What matters is the playing, not striking the ‘right’ key.”

She turned to the cat, Dinah, to see if she agreed.

Dinah had noticed nothing; and, this made the girl giggle harder and wonder:

Who is the pet and who is the master?

The girl had been thinking about thinking.

Dinah was being.

And, the girl wonders, if she cannot trust herself, why should she trust her mistrust of herself.

Then, she realized she was figuratively

asking a seashell for a sermon

instead of admiring it with determined purposelessness.

pebble once cast

I wolf whistle, lowly.

Two fingers pushed between parted lips, touching tongue.

And, I wonder…

Why do people need writing prompts?

They preempt.

Suggestions not needed.

Explicit requests enjoyed, nonetheless.

°

“You think I was talking about you?” he asks.

“It doesn’t matter. I heard you, anyhowl,” I say.

°

This, something, but, not just anything.

Head hazy open because it is heavy.

°

An attractive, not unwelcome, nuisance.

Needing to be handled. Straightened out.

Make hard to render malleable.

Remade and dripping.

Thumb it your mouth, moth.

Carry your hardwood.

I can carry the water.

I still thumb the pebble you once cast to me.

rite before this winter.

And, the quick of a moment felt so sad that even her burger seemed a dash bleu.

It was not, to her chagrin.

She always doted on cheesy ones.

She makes sure to try to sound measured because it’s the thing to do when she feels so unmeasured.

And, how still it is and how alone this is.

Small and full; tall and hungry.

Orestes and the Erinyes fighting over family improprieties.

She could write a myth lickety split.

Mice in high heeled, specially blown, glass slippers are the new beauty queens; because, in this pandemic climate, only the prettiest of the common vermin thrive.

Rodents cleansing the wicked.

Nut cracking and just in time for the holidays, come the Furiæ.

Three sannyasins of the Erinyes.

One of whom is Megaera, tempest decrying oath breaking authority.

Carrying wood yields returns in words, historically.

Nemo auditur propriam turpitudinem allegans.

She had once been found to be part of a common scold,

just another pretty shrew.

Some illegitimate, termagent harpy, ranting and bullying.

A peevish, malignant, clamorous, spiteful, vexatious, and turbulent one.

But, by this reckoning, he is found to be more shrew than she.

Augustįne in autumn

a continent of consonants.

There’s inconsistent consonance amidst the constant dissonance; and,

it makes her so tired that she could not possibly sleep.

This continent of consonants sees few vow well.

The scent of an uncapped pen’s ink funnels up her philtrum to violate her nostrils.

It makes her wet.

The sun grew too bright, so she saved her daylight time to accrue an extra midnight hour.

Preparing for Persephone, abiding until the winter solstice.

Her handwriting abruptly changes its font; and, she understands she is now taking dictation from a new source.

So, she stalks the coquettish house in the ebony of the deep evening,

listening to its moans as she strides down the strange steps of the home’s erogenous zones.
The walls writhing in their dripping striptease,

scraped off wallpaper revealing more wallpaper covering more wallpaper.

Hard wood floors caressing her soles with cold smooth.

Door jambs whisper secrets most care not to know.

Roof hovering, dominating, hiding the stars that may be falling.

Too many patterns pronounce; and, she’s so consumed by seeing them that she forgets to keep looking.

The Truth of a trickster may be bald and unabashed; but,

it is never ugly.

She is an unoccupied sleeve of a cigarette vending machine.

Coin plinked, toggle tugged, message received:

Empty. Try another.

Brand loyalty is an unaffordable luxury in times of scarcity.

So, smoke ’em if you got ’em, for tomorrow we die, again.

She pours two fingers of spirit, then tops it with two more until only the thumb remains.

The Holy Ghost resents the Father and the Son; but,

holds the Fallen Madonna(,) dear.

So, She houses the Spirit tightly

against Her breasts

because God doesn’t talk to Her;

and, She refuses to speak to angels.

The chaotic neutral must be just that

because a single leaf fell here instead of there.