ISBN: 978-0-374-53271-0
Category: Circles & Squares
Sharply Honed
One is not obligated to the obliging one.
Heads.
Something bespoke is not beholden.
Taíls.
Trail heads.
Heady tales.
⊙
What is my secret?
To appear as though I have a sweet, secret.
This smile whispering to you, making you wonder:
what produces it,
it comes from the desire to make you believe that
í know something that you do not.
To make you wonder until
you must inquire,
“What makes her grin in that
small, lips-closed and
pressed-pursed way?”
To make you want to wipe it off my face,
if you cannot know.
Howl this only makes my grin grow.
Ask me in private, and you will see my upper lip
arch into a sinister snarl.
Because there is no one else t/here.
No one to save you, or overhear the
sound of the feral ferocity,
whose volume keeps rising in my harbour.
Silly beast, it is true:
You are brut(e).
You came for me.
You come to me,
to slay the dragon
stalking me; but, you
now see how it wraps itself around me,
slickly leather wings folding around my shoulders as does a shawl.
See how I play with and stroke the tips of its scaly wings?
It is my shadow companion.
My gossamer wings keeping it warm.
The fire of its breath keeping my second set of wings, steely knives, sharply honed.
This is the power of having an open secret.
Í have nothing to lose by revealing myself, but
you have everything to gain if
í do.
A hallow on the high street.
I arrive at the restaurant through the back door.
I walk through the kitchen into the back office to drop off my coat and purse.
A book of poems by René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke sits on the employee table. I know it has been dropped off for me to take and read.
But, there is no note and no one says anything of it.
I do not bring it up.
The community blocks off the high street this evening.
No cars are allowed. Only hoards of costumed pedestrians.
The restaurant is booked. Chock full of reservations.
We are situated in the heart of the affair.
The previous owner, who retired two years ago arrives
to distribute candy with the new owner.
I introduce myself and
open with: so you released this place two years ago?
Yup. After twenty one years.: he shrugs.
Did you found the joint?
No. We inherited/bought it from the previous owners.
Was it called the same name when you took over, or did you change it?
Yup. It was called by the same name.
Do you want some hot tea to take with you? It is cold out there.
I want a glass of chardonnay at exactly seven o’clock, when this ends.
I make a sticky note reminder and post it where it will continue to catch our bartender’s eyes and thus,
Attention.
⊙
The seemingly ancient regulars begin arriving. None of the regulars made a reservation
for
Tonight.
Every reservation includes a note: window table requested.
Specters at a feast, watching the separate feast of the youngest generation,
through our looking glass.
The tables have been rearranged. The layout of the floor altered to allow more tables to be in front of the huge frame windows.
I intuit how unwelcomely our regulars perceive this change.
Understand the regulars eat every night here and have done so for over a decade.
Well, I suppose we’ll sit at this table. We want to watch the trick or treaters.: they huff, already walking towards the desired table.
In anticipation of this, i have placed placards on tables reserved for those who called ahead.
It bears their name and time of arrival.
I fear this one is reserved. I can seat you here or here. Anywhere there is no placard.
But, we never call ahead: they protest.
A lot of people did: I say.
I think: how do you not know what to expect tonight? You have been eating here for decades.
None of the reservations do I recognize.
The aura of the restaurant becomes maroon instead of its usual sunset orange.
{I hear a whisper say: tulpa.
I whisper: heyoka reads, tulpa.}
⊙
An exasperated, decorous but uncostumed, regular flags me over.
She and her companion dine with a couple I have not seen before.
[Trans. They planned to impress their friends here, this evening.]
She has been painstakingly doing panto. Craning her neck, trying desperately to espy the youngbloods in the street.
Yes, Misses ______?: I say.
I don’t know any of these people you have given the good tables to. All these people made reservations?: she accuses.
Yup. They all did. And, they all specified they prefer a window seat. You know, I don’t recognize any of them either, yet something led them here. Kind of magical, huh?
If those people leave, can we move to their table?: she responds.
Perhaps.: I allude, walking away.
⊙
These reservations are specters of the feast of the specters at the feast of future ghosts.
To them, i am tonight’s hostess.
Like them, I remember I have died before, will die again, and
I forget to remember it.
I will wake up.
I will fall asleep.
I will sleepwalk.
I will lucid dream.
I will remember to not forget that I am going to fail to remember
Again and again.
In delicious, concentric, Socratic circles,
Ever issuing out to the ether.
Dream of cloaks.
Í think í awake to the feeling of faint fingertips tracing my stermum.
Í jolt and suddenly say: í want to write for you.
He says: you do that already, yes?
Yes, but í mean to say í want to write to you.: í say
You are not conscious, yet, aurora. Slow down.
⊙
Let me trace your collarbone and the ligaments that pronounce from your neck. Let me delicately pinch that sweet Adam’s apple in your throat.: í say.
He says: Anything to stop you fidgeting with your fingertips.
That’s why í keep this cord wrapped, seven times, around my left wrist. Í play with knotting it.
He says: I know knots. I also know that you loosely bind your wrists together with it when you sleep.
Sometimes, because í am curious and desirous of that which no-one has done to me.
He says: I know.
⊙
He asks: did you dream last night?
Yes.
Tell me the story you saw…
Í am in a pub by the shore. Minimal decoration. A few pithy sayings adorn the walls. The wood of the floor and the glass installation behind the bar is the crowning aesthetic detail. There is the one drunk guy. The level of toleration he receives suggests he is a bar fixture, as well.
There are, perhaps, seven tables total, yet there are multiple hostesses. They sit at a service area by the front window, giggling in hushed voices and rolling silverware into cheap, paper napkins. Bohemian Rhapsody plays.
Alone and a’sat at the bar’s counter drop, í drink my beer too quickly.
It gives me goosebumps and a head rush.
The chandelier is double-sided and made of eighty, clear, glass beer bottles with candles burning inside. Í count them up and think: í must be back in Electri-city, where there is only candle light.
It is nearly charming, but the staff is in their own world.
Bad service kills the ambience.
Í see eight people sat around a large rectangular table.
That’s my group: í think.
Í rise and find my way into the only unoccupied chair.
As í lower myself into the chair, a courier enters the pub. Wearing a solid black cloak; the hood pulled so far overhead, no face or form is visible.
The courier strides to me and hands me a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.
Í take it.
No words.
The courier turns and walks out the door.
Open it: urges my table mates.
Í do. Inside is a hooded robe. The colo(u)r of burnt sienna. There are stars and slivers of new moons in col(u)ors nearly unnoticeable.
The others at the table clap and cheer, like this is important. Like í have earned it, somehow.
Like they already knew and had planned this as a celebration.
Í leap to my feet, having, still, spoken no words.
Í run out the door. Í look wildly up and down the street.
Who was the courier? Í must know.
This is no time for celebration, this is another moment of testing.
Í feel my heart pound.
Í want to be scared but there is no time; so, í imagine
Í am a beast, a wild animal.
A junkyard bitch set to strike and kill.
And, the adrenaline becomes ichor and not poison.
Then, í woke up to sensing your fingers on my sternum: í tell Him.
Off-the-cuff Choreography
A bath drawn to
to draw your words.
To soak your bones and remind your greyhound mind
to unwind.
Put the pen and paper away. I have nothing to say: he says.
Excellent. Í don’t wish to take dictation, then.
Ballet slippers donned and satin ribbons laced up my calves.
A custom pair. A parting gift from the corps
following a fall that took my left ankle’s ability to regularly dance en pointe.
There is no visible trace of the bone’s weakness, but I sometimes feel it,
still.
An act now saved for special occasions, and certainly not slick floors of bathing rooms.
But, I can still stand on my toes all day,
A white, gauzey skirt, flowing but slitted, and worn, only at home.
Black, satin camisole, containing little but fully covering.
A pinched waist.
There are valid reasons for dressing the part.
He says: Do your barre work in here. Can you extend each leg to the towel rack?
Yes, my extension is good but my turn-out requires me to warm up. Í’ll start with the countertop.
Familiar feeling of tendons pulling. Straining until a’loose.
Initially struggling to stay tight, they go loose like fretted guitar strings after many plucks.
Í arch my back and bend my spine backwards. It releases its tension more easily.
My arms move slowly like a lava flow.
Í warm my muscles.
Í imagine the heat your body feels, in the still hot bath water.
Í envision the expansion of your blood vessels and the increased flow of your bloodstream,
Therewithin.
The pulsing that your body sensates through the process of acclimating.
Í feel it.
It limbers me.
Í feel your eyes.
Í pretend not to but í delight in knowing that you know that í know that í am
under observation.
The awareness of this suddenly envelopes my attention and í slip from my posture,
but í do not fall.
Oops. Giggle.
Tell me, again, your mythos of Svetlana Zakharova and Robert Bolle.
Í love it when you have me repeat myself.
Well, she is from the Balanchine school, where every movement is lavish and ornate, pronounced and, often, painfully slow. Most male dancers get cast as choreographical fillers. They dance in support of a prima or a principal or a soloist, keeping her held in spotlights in impossible postures. This is changing, though. Bolle was the best at this. But, when he dances with Svetlana, she needed no outside support. She would hold her own positions while he knelt and/or took the spotlight. Her tenacity, strength, gave him a chance to both shine and rest. A chance to breathe. You know í found some of my prostrations from her La Bayadère variation.
He says: I know. The way you wrap your arm about your crown to cup your opposite cheek
My eyes have gone wide.
Í am loose now.
You look ready: he says.
Í know the perfect album: í say, flitting away.
From the other room, í drop the diamond tip to spinning vinyl.
Beaming.
Watch this: í say.
As the music flows.
My eyes remain open but í am not seeing.
Í feel as if becoming music in motion.
Í snake, í extend. Pronounce the flare of hips.
Í make strange signs with my fingers.
Í shift in this solo performance for the audience of the one.
His neck bends back and rests on the tub’s edge, eyes narrowing.
He begins speaking words as they come
to his mind.
There is no need to write these.
He says: I like how you begin with the restraint of ballet proper before losing yourself into more, less classical, feral movements.
Í whisper: ballet is a foundation of five simple positions from which infinite variations may be culled; but, dance is second to second and cannot be predicted, only experienced. It is undomesticated, improvised, choreography at heart.
Vellum pressed on wooden grain
You cannot awaken someone pretending to be asleep: he said.
Making a desk into one’s own.
Write upon me. Pleas: í say.
Priapus’ pen is pushing into papyrus; and, the
song of the sound produces a strange and intoxicating
ability within me to suspend mine own breath.
í hear your eyes speak to me:
If I dropped my pen to the floor,
how hard
would it be to convince you to recover it, for me, in your mouth?
⊙
And, if imagination is a precursor to reality, well,
í have got it in spades,
Howl í can only hope and imagine
Whomever, in this card game, takes the bid calls spades as trumps.
The sunny, shiny queen of magnets is also the
aloof, wide-eyed lady of looking-glass house,
and, wanting, to be
Your night witch.
⊙
Do the pillars ever leave or do they
simply appear
to leave as we move further closer
…
Further
Closer
….
As we imagine our stillness to be actually motion in movement?
/venture forth and know me/, no-one man of wildest dreams.
Howl í howl when í say or do something wild,
like the sweet, little monster í am
And, you respond: I know.
Prove it, pleas/e.
Unrooted.
The silence slaps the sweet smile from my face.
Two dimples disappear and my eyes go wide and watery like reflecting pools.
It was expected, knowing the routine.
Like my cheekbones slipping softly against your inner thighs.
I return of my own volition.
I am into repetition. Can ya tell?
A cassette played and then rewound, to be as the stabilizing soundscape to enhance feeling and gift a smile,
but cared for and never unspooled.
After doing the same action, ten times,
the action becomes anew,
because we extend the potential through practice.
Carrying wood.
Ritualization.
Not new, but still true. Reposted
Like an aged letter.
I am soft today.
Wide-eyed in hope and a hint of previous hurt.
An open vessel never being vacuous.
I embrace it,
whispering in a whimper: hey, let me in.
A Tea Party for your sobering Psychopomp.
Vamp for me, wild thing.
I will howl out the accompaniment to your movements.
The accompaniment as the autumnal ewe fades away,
but before the howling winds of this
fall remove all the leaves from your limbs
And leave You exposed to face the winter
Unrooted.
pendulous periodicity
Locals always laugh at the outfits of outsiders.
Before this autumnal fall,
í, in summer, remember when the sun would not fully go down until the double penetration of digits of the timely hour:
ten o’clock
eleven o’clock.
The midnight sun.
Mooning and fully waxed, then too soonly waning;
like how the free market prefers prefit,
favoring beholden over that which is bespoke and
hand-made.
Hot-air ballons.
so tightly wound, we no longer remember which is the right side of the road
down which to drive.
What of those howling, “sincerity is my only credential?”?
Those who live where the gravity is strange?
Where it pulls at such acutely obtuse angles?
Like shadows of the diabolicals we call hills and valleys.
Leaning forward whilst reaching back in this pendulous periodicity of the multiform streams.
Dynamic current/s.
Work.
The diabolical breathwork of
inhale
exhale.
Contract and release.
Diaphragm to breast.
Skin pulling tight enough to count ribs, like keys on a piano.
Play them as a xylophone to calm my frenetic feral fury.
⊙
It is sea shanty time at Maple Hollow.
Come to gather ’round, salty sea dog.
Exhibition of the blushing provocateur,
an energetic howling, sweet sea monster wailing for you,
swimming through kelp forests of her own hair.
Hide and seek.
Marco.
Polo?
Demure despite (but, never in spite) appearances.
Let me energize that ennui into
Dynamic current/s.La femme d’argent.
Mantle above hearth.
The sun hits that magic hour in its descent.
Making the black wrought iron scaffolding of the ongoing, neighboring construction appear alive and bioluminescent.
A shiny male hummingbird buzzes about my feeder.
He sounds like how carpenter ants work.
A single strand of spider web, disconnected from
save one of its points of anchorage, bandies about in the breeze like a tethered up sail boat does overnight, with its rigged sails furled tight like sleeping’s closed eyes.
The sun catches the gossamer strand in line segments up to but not including
its full length.
I smell someone has lighted a fire in their hearth for the first time in a long time.
My nostrils taste stale smoke.
Shall I gather the kindling while you carry the firewood?
My chimney flue prepared, opened after a recent clean.
Strike a match to it so I may wrap around, in the fire light,
like a little, infinite möbius
s
t
r
i
p
.
Questioning statements.
The breeze returns. Curt blasts whitecapping the water of the Sound.
My eyes return to your forearms.
Do you think sailors ever smoked to gauge the wind’s direction?: I ask.
There would be other, better ways, I imagine: he says.
But, any so physically and painfully pleasing?: I challenge.
⊙
Hear the sound of my hard swallow
after hearing you
say: no you cannot.
The yield of yielding when facing the inexorable other.
The difference between unmerciful and
mercilessly defines itself now,
Like the vulnerability of engaging in the outrageous.
⊙
Enraged does not imply rage any more than ‘engorged’ does not always imply an
Empurpled structure.
Shutter speeds of my apperature struggle to clearly capture the inside vantage point.
This lurid fecundity from your reinvigoration,
arches my spine into a gateway.
A point of entry becomes created.
⊙
Tell me something good.: he says,
as an outreach.
I say: I chop vegetables and fruits as meditation. Slowly, precisely. I pour my attention and love into the act until it feels as though they butcher themselves. Nourishing before ingesting for nourishment.
Mastery through repetition of action. I heard you swallow hard again, you know.: he replies.
My flow of thoughts continues to stream out from between my lips.
I feel my solar plexus and diaphragm release and tighten as my tongue and mouth shape the exhalations into
spoken sentences, saying:
the vivisection of a tomato is proof of magic and, isn’t it curious that oranges grow on trees whether you have a personal savior or not. I am not religious but I see the miraculous in much of the mundane. A habit can habituate into passé routine without proper inspection or
it may alchemicalize, under our will, into ritual.
Ssshhh. Your mind is always restless, do you think?: he quietly interrupts.
I think I feel a strange pleasure at you asking questions to which you already know the answer. And, yes my mind is. It takes a great deal of restraint on my part, to make it still.: I say.
Proper restraint is how we unleash ourselves and run wild.: says his voice.
The upward inflection on his final word gave the appearance of sounding like a question, even though
it is a statement.
Forward from the background
Compound the difference between want & need
with
the difference between need and neediness.
The equation yields an instrumental derivative that is also
an instructive integral,
Because the positive and negative space of herringbone (trans. houndstooth) patterns cannot be distinguished, the resulting visual is
like liquid words
wherein you may read yourself as the narrator or the audience.
Delicious dichotomy of the impeccably complementary.
The fall of a trip.
A pair of mended pantyhose, rationed from back during war time, hang on a wire, until dry, next to a patio railing lined with salted peanuts made as an offering to the nervous yet inquisitive Stellar’s Jays.
How I appear; how I am; how I perceive.
I first steeped in the blues near the delta shores of Muscle Shoals, as a child.
Families singing songs since forgotten by most places where time flows through you more quickly.
/ the grandfather clock was too tall for the shelf, but as it weighed,
not a penny,
not a penny, weighed more/
A pendulous arm with a weighted ball
pivots about the point of suspension.
Ticking out time in mono sound.
Watch it and I will show you how that strange land taught me to turn five seconds into three æons.
⊙
And, I write these words, first, by longhand to show how inane I can be; and,
to see those recognizing
kindness is kin of open-mindedness.
⊙
Sometimes I get a little...:howls the singer.
/And, when nobody’s there to write it, I’m gonna show you everything…/
/and, I can feel it in the silence…/
/why dont you come take a trip with me./
⊙
An emptied vessel is not necessarily vacuous; but, to
presume it is craven to be filled, is teleological fallacy.
Without trying,
{still}
a cistern is what it is:
Bits of sand transmuted into glass blown
to be exploded and then recapitulated.
Sea glass is simply sandy trash recycled.
⊙
I found the open secret viz a viz a well-marked rabbithole
with a spray painted perimeter to warn that
you fall at your own sweet risk.
Efficient Efficacy
The lunch rush of the little restaurant passes by two p.m.
I feel a hand lightly touch my shoulder.
How does being driven to distraction feel?: he asks.
Like being hyper-focused yet still clicking the submit button and immediately realizing your digital letter included a typo.: I reply.
Most people include typos in their writing, these days.: he replies.
Not me.: I say.
So your precious words betrayed you?: he asks.
No, they were instructive as regards the affect of your distraction.: I say.
So, I am effective?: he teases.
At the least, the effect you produce in me is no affectation on my behalf: I concede.
And, I wonder: will it still swim in my stomach when I return to handle the dinner rush tonight?
A sound not a bay.
I am the subtle magnetic force trying to kindly shift
your aged space and the immediacy of your moments.
Or, is that you?
Pulls of the polarized enliven me.
Maybe I am your current, optimal conditions,
an ideal, unidyll ether enabling materialization.
I see from the lonely vacuum without feeling alone.
Electric light and natural radiance.
A backlit screen,
The sun striking the pages of written text in a newly opened book.
Lidar and black holes howling in polite algorithmic rhythm.
The Oxford comma not being used within
sentences always running-on.
⊙
A’stood between two pillars of trees
with bark gnarled from time,
coarse like hands that can carry wood and graphite,
my writing flows
forward and backward.
And, simply saying, “hush” can be a come and turn-on to the fretted strings.
⊙
I see success is your proof; and, it
arouses need to draw your reaction.
Your attention.
So when you ask: Do you see?
I respond: I know.
Because I want to hear
You ask me: you know what, exactly?
i know my eyes want to watch your eyes: I reply with sheepishly calculated vulnerability.
⊙
I can see you enter a hypothetical room and
stand still.
Hell knows what I’d be doing, but
I know
I would stop doing it at the sight of your site.
To read you, without words,
your reaction. The response received from your eyes, without smiles.
Feeling as a fool tossing a coin with the Fates.
⊙
I ran with you in dreams last night: I say.
And, I understood the difference between a cagey connoisseur and a common collector: I think.
A coattailer or a partner in crime.
You tell me: your hair is a kudzu trail twisting down a terrace in tresses of winding locks.
⊙
These things are integral, like a well-timed laugh,
yet, they reduce to simple vibrations and shudders.
I live by a body of water
that is a sound oft confused for a bay.
But, my bays sound
like a whispered suggestion:
Come and bathe with me, Archimedes.
Verba Eclipsata
The ascent of a scent,
warm and humid like southern nights.
A recollection of something never had yet still known,
like the smell of a world existing prior to the industrial revolution.
Encoded in all minds, like a forgotten dream suddenly recalled.
“It’s curious how ‘illicit’ is used more than ‘licit.’ ”
“That’s not what I’ve come to discuss.”
“Are you sure about that?”
The livery stable holds a horse rode hard and put up wet.
From the projection of the rider’s own limbic system,
thereby was a scythe observed
being cleaned
off in a river of cortisol,
and, then, resheathed into the odd, wrappings
made of hide.
The harmony of the discord between a
sympathetic
And
parasympathetic
nervous system that is only given rest through
relentless fight or flight.
The capture and surrender of two individual, respective attentions.
Things contained and separated by encasings of skin.
Verba Eclipsata Intende A Dinspir.
Going Native
Taut red skin
Mercury droplets shifting, smearing.
The scent of the vanilla extract.
A compromise made in offering to being uncompromising,
to be compromised.
Reclamation of a piece of land left to lie fallow
after slash and burn farming.
Going native is just realizing your root.
A gift economy.
Pearl eats Oyster
The wex of supplication
The hex of self-sacrifice.
An aloe juice applied.
A smoked cigarette.
for supplication
of abasement.
⊙
Simplicity may dissolve into
a unity of psychic diversity.
Four bases produce
endless genotypes producing
infinite phenotypes.
The nature of nurture or lack thereof.
The art of service:
The difference between
I’m happy to help.
&
I’m glad to help.
Private humility
Laughing in the darkness of that which gifts you discomfort.
Where strangers are seldom seen.
⊙
I make circles. Keep up with my eyes.
Let it all be a tactical, tactile trick.
Kind brats of men move my pen.
See and know. Bathe with and clean.
Tepid water tested by toes while the ewer of a
faucet head drips.
⊙
Wake from a lucid dream into sleep paralysis at a touch of skin.
Churlish obstinacy and insubordination.
An affixed clothe-spin stinging like an inability to articulate.
A sheet hanging until until no longer wet.
The silence of the narcissist to the empath.
The empathic, giggling punishment of a narcissist.
A fretted string strung too tightly,
coiled to snap like a cobra.
A mouse that
turns out
to be a mongoose.
The extension of legs when moving from flat footed
to en pointe.
A swan taking flight.
A hunter knowing a swan strays not too far from its pond.
The thrill and repulsion of an irregular pearl who consumes
and swallows the oyster muscle.
.
Sweeping up
Sweep me off my feet.:he said.
This was different.
The difference between breathless and breathlessness.
I could set fruit on you.
⊙
I’ve been dreaming of restaurant work. Not stress dreaming.
The other night I was seating songs on the dining room floor.
Color swirls and wave patterns that
you could not
visually perceive yet
you still see
And, they made hummin’ noises.
Dreamy little lilts that were not parts of the songs they represented.
⊙
I just got off a great yawn of a breath.
⊙
Imagine the inconceivable: you say.
Well,: I say: gladly, assuming you recognize
you have requested i prove gödel’s sentence g
[trans. The very constructs of the query are technically
impossible to prove by the rules
enlivening the question as reasonable to me.]
⊙
I look up and
my neck cranes over my left shoulder,
to shudder and squint into the sun.
The moon will be in its place soon enough.
Unidyll Cads
Some of us are born out of synch with time
, revealing shady shadows
hazy
making weird and wet.
Even now the power lines can be seen as
demarcators between sky and Sound
, the lie and the allusion of a false horizon.
As, it is not a two dimensional axial tangle where water meets sky
It enjoins the earthen solid with the heavens and the sea.
Like how I could not see the mountains to my left
, for a solid month. And
, upon, seeing them
, to only mis-take them to be transient clouds of vagrancy.
The crows take their nuts
, chucked down to the Pavement below.
The chickadees take and taste everything fearlessly.
The Stellars’ Jays need lots of attention
, carrying boomboxes slung over their left wing
, blaring The Boys are Back in Town.
The junkos take nothing but simply get caught in condo hallways above parking decks.
The hummingbirds
, they come with simple ferocity for the taste of sugar water.
And a staccato strikes repeatedly. In time
, I take action.
My left hand flips an ancient
, anchor Roman coin.
(No calling heads or tails
, as there is simply Janus).
Flick
, twirling woosh
, palm-slap catch.
My right hand plays with a switchblade knife.
Opened.
Balanced upon the the knuckles
, then
Pwap
Balanced upon the underside of the knuckles
, my palm open skyward.
Spinning the web of a mesmorist to lay your tired greyhound mind to rest.
Notice howl the flare of nostril changes the shape of your lungs’ breath.
/and, nobody cares, especially me. But, I can’t help myself/
As I fall back awake from sleep.
/the intolerable lucidity of insomnia/ wrote Jorges Borges (The Circular Ruins).
The Art of Dreaming authored Carlos Castaneda after years of staying up all night.
The Voice of Knowledge wrote the nagual.
Shadowboxers fighting in the sunshine are oft under
Appreciated.
WrittenCasey 