Category: Circles & Squares

The Grain of Bacchus’ Barrels’ Wood.

 

Subliminal symbolism signals a system.

Æ am speaking to the diatribe diabolique: écoute et répète

The Magical Mythical Pantheon

that is comprised of we

who did so fascinate

the Fruedian’s preoccupation (with classifications)

such that he be’termed us the afflicted handle of

the polymorphous perverse.

But, hey-

T(he)y be sleeping monkeys. They pay for what they get. And they just come to get off.

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Levy (one of Dionysus’ favorite lushes) best put it: I like the wine not the label.

You say:

I wasn’t going to ask

if you drink red, white, rosé et al., rose-cheeked dummy.

I’ve a wine for your tasting, if you like.

I reply:

For your offer, I thank you, kindly;

But,

is it a finished wine or unfinished

that you would proffer?

Blind tasting from bottle sitting uncorked behind the bar?

Or, a sip of the batching directly from aging barrel?

Illicit thrill of an invitation

to steal a sample

from a cask

down in

and

past your

your cellar

door?

Alliance of the invited Thief.

You tell me of

a wine undergoing Vintification.

Alchymícal process of Fermentation.

Al’chymical.

All chemical.

I tell you that

I’m no hard scientist.

But I do know the Tao of Wissen’s Chraft.

Oft mispronounced as wissenshcaft and mistaken for

(another way to refer, too)

western Science.

I’m no fellow-follower of the standardized scientific paradigm.

Because I cannot be; I tried.

But of Wissen’s Chraft I could give a master class.

So, for the purposes of this moment, so made by your offer,

let me endeavor to practice this art of oenology.

I will make -logia of vintner and the

Tao of his crafty method.

But hear me: I am no viticulturist.

TaoWord

The Art of communication, huh?

Watch “Kevin Morby – Dorothy (Official Video)” on YouTube

Eddy out.

The Radical Being Here While There

Come to lose yourself in this sublime union,

Melting into the elation of sated desire.

Protect me from hubris.

Honor my ignorance.

Open me to revelation.

Let my magnetism defrag your mind,

Increase your flow, and

Remove your templates.

Show you how

your divine quintessence & corporeal body

Exist as

Unity not duality.

Hold fast.

Give ourselves permission

To feel without judging.

You stretch me,

My ability to tolerate

Ambiguity.

This is the true art of Mastery and Service.

Of when we dominate, handle.

When we worship, nourish, slave.

Enacting a ritual of control in our temple.

Our existential reality is a fantasy of control,

As we have very little compared to the forces we feel around us.

Even controlling the forces in our minds requires diligent practice.

So, I remember the organ that is my skin,

Separating me from everything else.

My container.

My flesh reminds me what is mine to control

And what is not.

I may influence what is not bounded by my skin

But I let go my grip.

I seek practices to experience and realize the numenous force of eros ever flowing through us.

Animating.

It requires our attention;

Our attention is sacred.

I have it bound within my flesh.

My skin and quintessence exist together as integrals.

Integrating my physical and non-physical bodies.

To have one without the other is to no longer be.

(At least not be what we now are)

A sack of meat,

a ghost possessing it.

I am nothing until animated.

Enlivened through that Force that enlivens trees, dogs, crystalline structure, lichens, cellular mitosis

anon, anon.

So I come to transcend myself with shifts in attention.

I try.

Ways of practicing how to notice the sacred everything,

Not by hiding away in isolation

But through a passion to engage

From across the world.

Saraband

We belonged to the diatribes of idiotēs set among the swans,

singing the harmonics of new prophecy.

Alit upon the pond, whose waters stay so still, you could be tricked and

mistake the reflection of

for the actual sun.

Do you recall Nietzsche’s ecstatic, public collapse?

Seeing an over-heated, carriage horse being beaten unmercifully

Over he rushes

to fall down in exhausted camaraderie

aside a fellow beast of burden.

Will they blame Ulysses and seek him again?

Some grown men will ever be juvenile while somehow failing to stay young in spirit.

K/Nights leading on to nowhere, in vain

While we lie licentiously aside. Alee. Aleph.

The peek in as they post pass.

The fretting single mother rocks in their wake

frets behind them.

The smell of dinners prepared is served into the air of the neighborhood.

Their smells are free.

A Sunday night & Monday morning.

Let time move those outside our walls.

The world will keep up with it as we lose track.

The sun and moon do need us to help them.

Maintain the tempo.

Harlot to Freedom [disambiguation]

HARLOT

1. Lewd woman; prostitute

2. obsolete, a male servant; a churl

3. A woman in contempt

Per se: anyone, male or female of low birth.

[From Old French ‘herlot’, fellow. ]

CHURL

1. Low-bred, surly fellow

2. A sordid person

3. A peasant

4. English historical, Anglo-Saxon freeman of the lowest rank or without rank.

[From Anglo-Saxon ‘ceorl’, man.]

CHURLISH

Rude, hard to work or manage, intractable

LEWD

1. Characterized by lust, lustful; carnal- licentious

2. Provencial or Archaic, morally depraved, vicious, wicked

[See the Anglo-Saxon ‘læwed’, lay]

LICENTIOUS

1. promiscuous and unprincipled in sexual matters

2. Archaic, disregarding accepted rules, especially in grammar or literary style

Came into Middle English from the Latin ‘licentiosus’ from ‘licentia’, freedom.]

Funk & Wagners, 1943

Oxford English Concise, 2008

Terminology Mindmap: Parzifal

On the Currents of Dreams

Cicero. Fetch him. Will he read to us, aloud, his Dream of Scipio?

Recall the nightmares of Nebuchadnezzar? His hope for Daniel’s talent?

Recall. He refused to heed the warning this soothsayer pulled.

Recall: The king lost his mind, to a strange psychosis lasting seven years, at which he regained reason.

So where are the temples erected to Aesculapius?

And, who also dreams like pharaoh Thutmose IV?

Hormakhu comes and goes now.

New forms. Uncovered the Sphinx.

Perhaps goddess Safekht took Serapis as hers.

The learned ones of the library of magic.

《《》》

So incubate. Sleep. Dream

Learn.

The Egyptians taught.

Hermes & Moses received. Others too?

Encrypted. Pentaeuch.

《》

Everything is already written in the very measurements of the dimensions of the Temple of Soloman; and even Paracelsus, so long ago, already said: The Earth is a magnetic body.

Concerned with patterns of currents’ change, they replaced menhirs with Gothic cathedrals.

< < > >

Receiver-Transmitter.

Transmitter-Receiver.

Power & Directions

Flow & Tensions

Telluric

< >

Found notecard rambling…

Sleep W/Rites

Four nights ride at me like knightless horses.

Some of us may be dead.

Do not overreact, we shall (re)enliven to you, the dead.

And, if you feel restless,

Then stand.

And, if it lingers, walk.

But, you must (not) forget your breath.

The Stain of that tree;

the mark of that unknown paw.

Await.

The tug of leash.

Does it follow?

Machen to Helen.

Machen was guide. Weigh Station.

Chhinnamasta calls me fall at her feet.

With my love.

To feed her, so she may feed the mystæ.

Horrendous in image.

But not horrible when properly imagined.

Can you deserve without earning?

Leviathans are understandably underendowed.

Catastrophe revealing atrophy.

Missing. One star. Even though there is a sky full.

I walked through a field of green meadows, last night.

Fields of fantasy and feeling.

And, then again,

the singular black dot.

Tiny spec/k/.

I cannot enlargen it, but I

continue to try.

I did as I have done because the demand

upon me was greater today.

Clothed in bedsheets worn/draped as a

s/ash.

Imagine. Pitter patter. Socks on carpet.

The deer licked the derelict.

Feeling the parsimony of time in mind.

Along.

A long.

A longing.

A precious ore mine.

A veritable land grave possessed

by the fool hanging by one foot.

On a needle & thread.

Watch “Tears For Fears – Shout (Official Video)” on YouTube

1980’s music review continued:

It becomes apparent my heart has quite a soft spot for Tears for Fears.

According to Pop-up Video (VH1 circa 1990’s) this song relates to the idea of scream therapy. Yes, it is exactly what it sounds like.

Further, we the audience, receive bass and guitar solos.

An effing innocuously delicate percussive intro.

He tells us he is talking to us.

To you.

Can you list the things you could “do without?”

“In violent times, you shouldn’t have to sell your soul.

In black and white, they really, really ought to know,

Those one track minds.

They gave you life and in return you gave them hell.

I hope we live to tell the tale.”

/ Insert surprisingly painless synth jam. It grooves proper for pop /

Decent sax?!

If I could change your mind, I’d really love to break your heart.

An almost seven minute radio release?

Yes, please.

Thank you, kindly.

Much, obliged.

Watch “The Folk Implosion – Insinuation ( Album Version )” on YouTube

A slick little number from a favorite of my mine.

I sat awake all night listening to this album at age 17.

Working my tail off to prepare Girl State campaign propaganda. It is a rather eerie patriotic program. Two gals picked from each public and private school in the state.

To this day, I do not know how I was selected. A bit clandestine. I returned from my lunch period (the effing latest one of all— major drag) to find a printed invitation on my desk. I’d ask the Randall family: publishing impresarios. Highest of royalty that I have ever met in the South.

Underdog was my theme. My goal: Sanitation Engineer (garbage pick up, yo).

Hotly uncontested. Responsibilities included: making sure the dorm rooms, where us Girl’s State occupants stayed, received regular trash pick up.

That’s right. I didn’t even pick up. A paid grown up did. So, I spent the days unencumbered. Bored until night fall. A swarm of white moths would descend upon the light outside my window. Dizzying numbers. Vertigo.

My 17 year old self did not micromanage the paid adult. I did put a big black garbage bag, sloppy outside the door of my and dorm mate’s (she was not impressed) suite.

It has a formal sign next to it, bearing Underdog’s image.

It read:

1. Please do not remove; this is not trash.

2. Please file complaints about your garbage service on paper and put in trash bag.

it gained me friends and foes.
we ended up overthrowing the elections through a write-in campaign,
instead of voting for the winners of the primaries, like good gals.

the most qualified candidate for a top position did not make it thru the primaries.
so, we waged a covert campaign. messages were passed through the obnoxious, yet seemingly innocuous garbage bag.

one must not underestimate the aversion most southern ladies experience when it comes to the idea of poking about in a trash bag. even if they knew it is clean. this was a big, industrial bag. you had to shove your head and arms into it to get the paper notes. it sat loose on the ground. no supportive structures to help hold it up while you lean in.

underdogs and insinuations. make change happen.
giggle

The Summer Sphere

Set amongst a group of a dozen bystanders,

I watched the boat burst into flames

Ten yards into the bay.

A man runs to the lapping shore.

Drives his body deeper, diving into a falling wave.

We were not sure why.

No one was aboard.

The sopping wet man returns to say:

I’ve ruined my phone.

While coming ashore.

Fire twirls on the water table worktop.

Contradicting.

Through an oil burning medium.

The invisible lucifermatch

White stick.

Head struck and aflame.

Hum.

The nearest bystander to my right:

Wow!

I continue saying nothing.

Again: Wow!

Again: nothing continued

Can you believe it, he said?

Well, I’m seeing it, but the question of that reality requires a lot of words.

Maybe we should get a coffee and watch this fire burnout? He asked.

How kind, of you. Metaphysically speaking, as we would be, it is arguable that we will if we have not already done so. So, in this timeline I decline, kindly.

There are whispers that Klingsor’s summer and spear is near.

Watch “Marvin Gaye – Inner City Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler)” on YouTube

Top ten daydream involves being able to sing this well.

Hot damn.

What a man.

This song in particular. The harmonies, the percussive vocals.

Such a gorgeous song for such a serious subject matter.

Absolutely includes Gaye giving a scream to rival any rocker.

Descriptive Despotism.

Scant and off-standish. I confuse for oscillation.

Busied with nothing, they are.

Ashade & alee, ally & algæ.

Predicated upon such a predicament.

Do what, now…

In/Transitive verbs. Inert momentum gave the other dog the upper leg.

I asked the CAT scan tech:

Can you have electric without magnetic?

Field/ed/ naught.

He grinned; I passed out.

Suzie Q got graham crackers.

She can still write in cursive correct.

They do not teach it anymore.

Skills being disvalued.

After being discounted

Only creating future demand.

We are no orthodox sun-dwellers, dear.

Such is a sweet thrill.

Pity the would-be achievers; they will never enjoy their achievements

Until they learn to love strangers.

My apprehension now apprehended.

Eyes narrowed and lips

Pursed. Spawning focus.

Now, your lips purse, pucker up, as you

Awaken into a dream, falling into sleep.

My sweet Poliphilio.

Your own right hand pressed to your cheek. The scratchy friction of just a bit of beard to the back of your hand.

Your fingers curl slowly.

Except your pointer. It alone rests atop the left shoulder, too.

A top,

The bend of a knuckle, the one next to the nail.

Holding until held.

Pucker ampersand purse. Your lips. Again. Deeper you fall.

Twitching tap of that

Pointer fingertip to clavicle.

Across pectoral, sternum, and pectoral.

I start my next sentence but we idle in the æyther and I recognize.

In our idyll. The approach.

An image, but not one of whom I recognize.

Encircled and fuzzy in capture.

Encapturing the same arm

To the same shoulder.

It will not be long now. This will drop.

My brow and focus unfurrows and

Then uplifts in honest realization and disappointed resignation to the moment.

My eyes no longer two half moons.

Becoming oval saucers.

Serving platters for huge dinner parties,

Big enough to hold the head of John the Baptist (aka the Revelator).

And, at the feast,

I see the eyes and hear the hush of the hushed. They peer in on this meal with faces stoic and smug.

Held in their voluntary vanity

That holds their faces involuntarily so.

I asked the Old Man. The who no one ever done met:

Does your mountain happen to be Sugar or Magic?

He grinned

And asked:

Have you heard of The Mountains of Madness?

I nod. I know. I read and read. Now.

Knotting and loosening.

Hand in hand.

No juxtapositing but aligning and allying periodicities.

The sacrosanct of a reluctant headliner.

He said: now you know a secret; man can fail.

I said: that’s only a revelation to your men.

Morgan saw detail.

Meredith saw the night sky.

Rachel saw in between.

Portrait. Picture perfect.

The day the aerobarges arrived

The robbers hasten their liquor store evacuation, the day the sky barges arrived. Turns out, there was no need.

《》

Effie was aset at the burled wooden desk, plate of blackberries, the culprits bleeding on her fingers. The barges drifted past. She heard them before she saw them. The cat had been fretting all morning. This reduced her surprise at the surprising.

She heard old music. Old timey. Pressed for phonograph. Tinny music. The kind men in fur coats would Charleston to, while drinking: alumnus attending the homecoming game of his alma mater. Girls twirl like it is the 1920’s. Reservedly untoward. The dance is all in the eyes.

This flashes in her mind, a daydream of orientation. Her curiosity piqued, she makes for the front room, with its huge picture windows, framed by newly painted, unadorned white walls.

Picturesque, but now the Douglas firs partially obscure her view of the aerostrocities. They move at a painfully slow knots per hour.

Ima grab those blackberries. They are not in rush and I’m hungry as eff.

She pops them ala popcorn into her mouth, watching. Her neighbors begin to venture outside. Some voluntary evacuation necessitated by a craving for speculation. The steely comfort of hearing someone else acknowledge the surprising, and then say, “I think it must be…”

Their words crackled like burning logs, the freezing air making every word they spoke become the smoke. Hazy veil from the heat source warming their fear. Tirefire.

Effie watched them, too. Actors on the stage.

To call a stone panther.

The braches on boughs broke.

Lying lifeless. Casualties of the white out.

Lost soldiers, abandoned by their unit.

Under the weight they could not withstand.

Only now revealed

Sheets melted.

Perfect circle encircling more circle.

Inside.

There is a blackstone panther, she re-enlivens each night

A path of sprawling

Stalking prowl.

The little girl awaiting her bus told me so.

She tugged my coat and pointed as I passed: I see her at night.

Does she have a name, I ask?

She just nods and waves.

Passing,

I smile and turnaway.

Exhausting Dreams

I’ve been consistently sweating in my sleep.
Dreams in the same neighborhood as the swaying structures
Only now we are not pedestrians.

Nor roof top runners.

The vans return.
Mass panic.
Drunk, drunk rednecks.
And, disenfranchised swarming points of public services.
No one seems rich.
Or perhaps the rich are unseen.
Alee and safe from our strife.
The previous night, the riots/disaster broke out.
Some truth revealed of which I discovered myself involved in
Through familial inheritance. clandestine.
Unaware until that moment.
Strange feeling of alienation.
Now that I know my involvement, my allegiance, must change.
My family has implicitly caused the suffering of many. With at least a bit of awareness.
<With too much intoxication?>
We leave a keg party in the woods.
A young man, Hunter

I went to high school with this blonde

Son of a politician [in the dream].
We were not friends.
He was in a higher clique, multiple levels.
That said. he was always kind.
I am by far the sober one.
But have the deepest of dread about driving the
Super drunken party.
As in, if we get pulled over by the cops (sic. American cops midst a crisis….DANGEROUS) it is more important for me to ditch the carload and make for this public center. That looks like the Tuscaloosa Library

(ed. note: before ‘tuscaloosa’, it was called Druid City. Point in case, the biggest hospital is known formally as DCH- Druid City Hospital. Quite magical considering the Magic City is only 45 min. NE.)

Hunter offers, kindly yet foolishly to drive us in his huge red truck.
Within two minutes we are clearly going to crash and hit a metal solid post. I think:
1. Hunter’s father has the sway and motive to save his son and the party to the crime. That is if we/they ever make it to trial. Which is questionable. The state of AL is in shoot first question later mode.
2. I will bail from the truck before impact IF impact is inevitable. I have great confidence in my ability to time and gauge this.
3. Amy is the only one in the truck I feel loyal obligation to. I fill with dread. We have not spoken in years, and she feels like dead weight that I am responsible for. And I intuit she may feel the same way about my own prescence.
People begin to reach up and try to snatch the wheel. This is ok by me.

Somehow we avoid crashing.

Amy bails.
I bail.
We freeze

And look at each other. We did not plan to bail together.

We apparently were just similar minded in how to handle the problem.
I indicate with eyes: I’m going my way. Do you want to come or go?
She crosses the road towards me.
Before she finishes, I’ve started running toward my destination.
She cannot keep up.
She arrives later and is pivotal in assisting me help the people my family

tacitly, indirectly, hurt.
(Ed. Note: she loves her family. They have never truly hurt her or even let her down in waking life).
We save the day after a protracted dance of:
She distracts and alludes the vanmen outside through camp.
I evade them inside while finding and sneaking people.
From this multiple story structure that winds horizontally.
It seems to grow ampersand sprawl.
The people often resent my help.
Some refuse it.
An armed faction of the people I’m trying to get outside decide me a hostile enemy.
Complicating my evasive action.
They change forms. An elite force.
At one point, í beat a crow to death, over and over it came at me, with a tennis racquet. When I looked on its lifeless body, felled upon the second step of a staircase, I fill with dread.
I killed it in fear it was a transformed enemy. In retrospect, I cannot be sure that I had not just beaten a confused, agitated bird to deæth. Maybe it was just a bird. Then the whole question stops making sense. I feel confused but on the run. Time, survival.
end: successful but incomplete.

Cut to last night.

Same place, same time.
Only, I embrace the role of driver.
My car.
Interstates flooded with water and cars.0
I dodge and weave impeccably.
But, I feel exhausted and stressed.
Then, I know when/that I should/ to

pull over and rest.

The panic inside me ceases.

The disarray outside continues.

I drive people in and out of the city all night
(I would not describe it as a nightmare. Not even as a bad dream.

Just a tiring, surprisingly self re-affirming dream)

*

I Tense My Neck

With back straight,

Í asked you, “do you try hard too?”

The snow reduced me to pencil,

#2

Bleeding out my pens proper.

Wondering about that table of six í auto-gratted

in the Tavern five years prior.

My lead cracks.

Mark darker.

And then í find,

one pen left in my fold.

Shortstop

Between run and go.

A dash of dalliance

Unconcerned with with prose that came before

Or wilt

Would be.

Her hands would shake?

Ledges are not only

but also for leaping.

They told me “no.” Which is always within rights, but í was left confused.

Í cannot remember asking anything

Lend a

Hand, right?

Play your vinyl

Remove the album sleeve.

Put your diamond down, glasscutter.

45 rpm.

I see none involving nengk.

I feel like a chemist when I boil water.

Astood upon three toes.

Oops

now four.

And the sky matches the ground.

He told me we ought to blow it up.

The snow.

Cuz of the moon.

An allotment of the ailment is being carried

By wagonmasters & confronters.

I pay attention to your punctuation.

Sometimes my teeth bend but don’t break in my bad dreams.

Of getting ready for Gertrude’s party

That never happens.

Disproportionate response.

Unreeving.

Receive the rowen.

We worked double overtime.

And looked into your mother’s eyes.

She could not smile then but she does now.

As assiduous as inexorable is

My final defenses are indeafsible.

A prerogative disinclined toward extravagance,

As much as the silver sliver of

The new moon is caustic

And the lurdan lurid.

The succubus and incubus work in tandem.

One pulls rope and the other gathering eggs.

No small surprise they work in sleep’s misty revue.

A dæmon to a dreamed of demon that never derived from the proper diabolical.

A small child born.

A mom and dad.

And suddenly you stroke your chin,

And I miss my train

Of thought again.

Scraps of yellow bits scatter my room

And I sit indian style.

Crossed.

Bow drawn. Arrows all a’quiver.

Quivered and quivering.

Set asleep amongst the Ingessana Hills.

Children recover souls they did not know

They missed.

We are the doctor-diviners with a sleepy second sight.

We dream the dreams the sleepers cannot fathom

Until awakening.

There is no need to fear.

I see none involving nengk.