How is it that, I, Ariadne, she whom gave you the string to trace your way out of this labyrinth, now finds herself strung along by it?
When did the slipped, sleeping pill take æffect?
Am I woke or lucid dreaming
Or sleep walking?
from whence rhythm first flowed and then flew.
I return twice slain.
hunting on my tip toes.
Forward and up.
A tightrope walker knows to not look down
when toeing a path
across the line.
When nothing makes sense
Abandon yourself to the terrorifically awful awesome.
Control and compliance, there is a
subtle difference in
Ways of Seeing.
Berger the Maverick.
“Perspective centers everything on the eye of the beholder.”
What of the things after the Physics?
The left over ones.
The ones with red x’s painted in the blood of autumnal sacrifices of
sweet satyrs and wicked mares.
Pass(ed) over during the Harvest.
Prepare for the final plague and
yet another Exodus from Egypt.
Recall: a tarbush is not a fez.
One have women worked under feet for ewe.
One has not but is not naught.
I hear you in magical, howling waves.
As though howling at me,
I remember standing in your circular hall, situated in front of one of twelve windows. I could only see eleven.
Just as I k/now-sees your strange, blue table has only three legs,
Æ believe twelve is your number.
I fell for the Baker and his dozen of thirteen and thirty one.
These I found in your thirty six chambers (the dirty version).
What of the power of inaction?
I have seen it. I am re enlivening the power of actions.
Asserting my attention so that it becomes attuned to
My intent to action.
What of your golden cauldron and collar?
The triple obelisk etching adorning the table
and, your fine robe.
The position of your fingers.
An empty hand and a bespoke hand which
furls, clasping like a talon.
There shines the indigo light
about the crown of your skull, wild one.
There I was in the sunny shine shiny.
Apposite the Alps, wearing my best burlap, with berry and leaf applique.
Knapsack number eleven over the left shoulder, loosely slung.
Greyhound, red eyes, nipping at the ankles of my bare feet.
Stepping over the cliffside.
Behind me to the right, the foal of a chestnut mare looks on,
at the journey of
Or perhaps, s/he was just eyeing the ten and one, white lillies to my left:
yet still, and
looking up upon.
I watch the water mist itself seamlessly into the sky.
The ferryman drives his cargo across the water
to my c shore.
I espy your spies and I show them kindness as
In black velvet with a white silk tie
I bought the garb earlier today. It smells old.
It smells like the previous owner.
The pink votive, colour of my heraldry,
burns oily shadows into the chilled airs.
The intermingling of the scents tricks my nostrils
into sensing you.
And, the last sip of water from this glass tastes like salt
off the thinnest part of your skin.
It invokes the duality within.
Ariadne and Artemis.
Before sound, there was vibration
with no auricular structure to perceive it.
Before these trinities came dualities.
Before syncretism came juxtaposition.
Before leverage moved mountains
and swept us off our feet,
the mechanical principle
All awaiting discovery
in this hollow solidity.