The reason you turned around;
The reason í pan-kicked;
at the sound of a child
Category: esoterica/mysticism
:Has Ended by Thom Yorke:
Has Ended by Thom Yorke mazon Music
https://music.amazon.com/albums/B07GZ9L24S?trackAsin=B07GZ9GSLC&ref=dm_sh_O8MIfrQqbeo0ltNOG2yEHOv6j
Give it a listen at 2x playback. It sounds equally good, I’d wager, at any number of playback speeds, not hard to convince our ear drums.
it is still music. It does not turn to noise.
it falls from fashion, critical regard.
But even terrible songs are songs. If they were not, you would not have termed the noise music.
The wholly original, genius of Sun Ra put it best: we work on the otherside of time
Space is the Place is what’s up.
Poussières d’étoiles
Dwans their lumin
It is what is though. Like everything and all.
Eclipses
Phases
Vectors
Sea Changes
Middle C
Belle Curves
When stars fell on alabama,
There was no moonlight slow dance
They thought the The End was
Nigh
Night
Knight
But is you can talk about The End in the past tense.
At least you are
A Knecht a’kneeled Before Flame
He saw how Joseph was annealed by the fire…[and] felt the ordeal more than Joseph. P241
Sounded overwrought to me. Then I bothered (sic. concerned) myself with actually looking up
/annealed/
I was being educated on several levels. I first read the sentence such that I thought I knew more than I did. I imagined /annealed/ to be some form of a bow or a kneeling position, a kiss the ring, smell the glove. A posture taken when the situation demands you take yourself seriously. If you can imagine such a thing! Or that you undertake to do something trivial quite meticulously. For the sake of the process itself. By your choice. You take part with and in. Or, when ritual, tradition, culture, bestows us a transcendental catharsis by allowing us to take very specific actions with others undertaking them alongside, as well. A hymn sung by a choir. Suddenly, lighting a candle is holy. Yet, lighters and matches abound. Fire is easy to come by but it was not always so.
Blind spot.
Shocking how much meaning we can contain. There are so many pearls that some readers start arguing over the appraising of an irregular pearl. It is all about finding, examining, analyzing, and drawing conclusions about the relative value. Waiting to find that big money shot pearl. A yup.
“awe, more valuable. made of pearl but unique, collectors edition. Gesture, essence. and articulation.”
“Worthless. It’s shape isn’t paradigmatic of the standard pearl. Misinformed. Monstrous, devalues the other pearls to even be in the same bowl with them.”
Who let the pigs out? Who? Hoo hoo?
Too much monkey business for me. We as a species have moved on. Or did I miss the train and am now out of joint?
The Glass Bead Game: Magister Ludi. 1990. First Owl Books Edition. $18.00 USD/$24.95 Canada. That seems really inexpensive as I think back on it now. At five hundred and fifty eight total pages, it is a trek but no death march. As with any trek, though there will be days. But, then there will really be days! Am I right, a hyuck, hyuck.
The length is not the deterrent. The printing of the book intimidates. At least my copy. That is why I bought it. It looked too heavy for a book that size. A thing that is larger than physics allows but your eyes empirically cannot deny. Your brain’s rational processors will fill in the reasons that ‘you can’t trust your eyes.’
A phone booth and doctor.
A House of Leaves.
A ship ever at sail on a foreign sea, the life of the house mouse lost.
S/he loses their position in the home.
You lose something you did not know could go missing. The notion of home? An ending spoiled. Don’t let the little ones hear. Something you cannot unlearn but surely there is room for doubt and maneuver. Doubt suffers where there is little room
Something you took for granted. Because there is so much to see and so many things vying for the pleasure of your (everone’s) attention at all times. We cannot process the amount of information we physically can conceive us. We get by and brains fill in the blanks. The way you discover your new car’s blind spot.
《《 》》
Crash. Ah, hell.
《《 》》
But what was to be done? Can you judge yourself for not knowing that your vehicle is afflicted with a blind spot? Sure, but where that at? If you want me I’ll be in the bar. Speculating on some dreamy nonsense. The thing you did not see in your rearview & side mirrors (electric-adjustable, I’d wager) as you merged lanes, was, by dint of optical physics, unseeable. You cannot adjust for and account for such a variable.
The publishers did not eff around. There is a deliberate concern for both style and balance in the margin setting and lettering layout. There is room to scrawl. If you are into that sort of thing. I am! The luxury of the thick white broadband’s conjunction into right angles about the four verticies gains further dimensionality by its opposing page.
The reflecting pool in the palm. Narcissus finally went mobile. Each page appears with its predecessor and/or successor in symmetry. Consider the leaf of the sheet itself. Two page numbers and each bearing letter matricies yet on but one page. One page in the book holds two pages. Think about that. There ain’t ya’ll entertained? If that is not magic, then ya’ll doin’ it wrong. I see gods contained and present amongst the multiform streams. IHS Bacchus first. Then as Janus. Holding us in the present, pressed fast between the past and the future tense. So the text on each side of the page gives rise to leaf between your fingers as you turn the page.
Let us say, maybe, five hundred and forty pages are geometrically identical in dimension, same squares, same squares. Matrix array with its vectors contained in those critical margins. Two koi ponds reflected about the same axis of symmetry. Simpatico. The more you read, the more the very confined area with unnecessarily tiny pt. font, single spaced. Tight, trim, orderly. And you are drawn in and held fixed in that little space. Rapt. Enraptured.
And then the ratio expands. The page does not seem so small.
The biggest hinderance to the book’s popularity in America was a poor original cipher of the German language. But translating the lyrical prose of Hesse is probably like trying to translate a Japanese character into ‘the English word for it.’ You can pull it off but the English Equivalence is questionable. Americans are poorly positioned to be strong readers of such heavy, often erudite, ultimately, ironic tomes. We do not get the geographical exposure to other cultures.
Hell, we didn’t get the joke.
It fell for it too! The joke of being so dreadfully stoic that the reader would not dare think you were givin’ a ribbin.’ This is a book; An effing long one; I found all these pearls. I’m rich. Made-man. This is a book of power not jokes for blokes.
Sigh. Now, your cracking me up.
The good news is, if you do ever get the joke, it makes you smile and laugh out loud. Then shake your head. Hold on.
Although, states are arguably the same as little countries.
:Silence:Pause:
í before e except after c (but not always).
The Cheek Of You, Eco!
Foucault’s Pendulum¤ = Asteroid of a book and author and both have coated me in spec(k)s of poussières d’étoiles forever.
Sister star to The Glass Bead Game: Magister Ludi°, at least in my little ol’ heart.
Trine. Zenith. Allegorical Syzygy?
Funny, for sure. Bless him for that because this book was heavy-wading for this gal.
Until,
I hit p.478 and read the text in the pic below. I, literally, Laughed out Loud; I, figuratively, was Rolling on the Floor Laughing.^
Mystical sumption of the syllogism, or modus ponens. But while this gal fumbles with wordsmithing, here are some juicy open secrets to for you more achievement oriented individuals to add to your trove.
Do you see the connection?
¤ Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data [ed. note: open secret x]
Eco, Umberto
[Pendolo di Foucault, English]
Foucault’s pendulum/by Umberto Eco ; translated from the Italian
by William Weaver—Ist ed.
p. cm.
Translation of: Il pendolo di Foucault.
“A Helen and Kurt Wolff book.”
ISBN 0-15-132765-3
PQ4865.C6P4613. 1989
853′.914–dc20. 89-32212
°Originally published under the title of Das Glasperlenspiel by Fretz & Verlag AG Zürich Copyright 1943.
^ Aka 🤣 FKA (original med. f/k/a) ROLF. This note is for my sister, with love.
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.
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.
Found Notecard that I did not make
Watch “Wagner – Parsifal Opera (recording of the Century : Hans Knappertsbusch 1951)” on YouTube
Parabolic Paean
There was a poet and his rose, and
A garter stalking both.
And the lady with forgetfulness
Oblivious until remembering the
Tresses of misses: one be model; one be tumbler.
A glass-looking to the star in the west.
A ladder Alice keeps handy.
A’Lateralus
That k/night of the encryption of all those cryptic Coptic scrambles.
Into the apparent innocuous steganography
Duplicitous, serving to conceal and
once concealed, serving hardly anybody
Cryptic.
(Brevity perplexing)
Ambiguity in meaning.
Employing cipher and code. Directory path unrecognized.
Cain and Abel:
Mystified mystics, huh?
Swan, iynx, ibis
Wrynecking at this cockchafer (May) doodlebug.
Khephra, my nighttime sun.
We witness the concluding clause of this instrument,
Writ as an English to Portuguese test.
The translated texts falling under the title of Book
With a keynote of ecstacy.
Marvel that it is just
The Beginning.
Barbarous Barber, oh! god of shears.
Shore them that be certain across their crowns.
Whilst I will show them their tears.
Pulling the tides of moons inside
making oceans bleed from their eyes.
With my lyrical vespers ecstatically heralding a wandering star’s return.
Harken, Venus.
Ariandte howls feral heat
Inviting Dionysus to the feast
Of Two Wandering under the Midnight Sun.
The Aura of Alice: Nikaia.
The model of an acrobat.
Circling tangled loops at the thought of a question as such:
If desire be not love; then what of feeling the desire to love?
Ecstatic coronating of this al-chymical betrothal
Lovers become beloveds.
Missives of purpose with intent embuing metaphysical eternal
While Elemental attendants runner it in a return back
To ward now.
Toward and from. Hither ampersand Thither.
But never former
Vows renewed through every flux of lung-moving breath need not be formally avowed at one big affair.
Mavericks each having Sun and Moon self-contained..
The quarrel of Aura to Artemis thusly resolved
Through electromagnetic absolve.
Twice born Dionysus with his lawful Ariandte resurrected.
The Hypnerotomachia of Poliphilo dreaming. Polia.
The Beautiful Dream of awakening to the mayor’s young daughter.
The dreams of Christian Rosenkreutz. Married indeed.
Are you not unbored? Then let me rub the fur of your fuzzy heart wrong.
The stimulant Irritate.
Irritating you up to
Irate.
I rate this meter, but am not its maid.
I am handmade anew everyday
Because I am dying to wake up and out my sleeping dreams.
Ae’ll not serve you potions of soporific words.
Funny how they seem so meek yet it is they who will rape you in your sleep.
Ae keep you awake to seek ‘the awful lucidity of insomnia’
where you will re-enliven in a world where heroines are no longer satisfied with mere men.
Wanting Pharaohs but no longer remembering
They had once created them with mere mortal men.
These are the blood tears the children of nations will so cry.
Just as Satan has been sleeping the whole time.
The blood of the lamb, replaced with lanolin.
Empurpling petals bloom inside.
As I gather your lips into mine.
Slow swaying to a band playing our saraband.
Gauzy dress of cotton becoming feathers beswanning me.
Ensorcelled by the pitch-black, starless hue of your suit
You wear the night sky.
And I am an unlit day.
It is now high noon for my midnight sun.
Silver corona glowing in plumes
As we change up the tempo. With more tempting teasing.
Humming: how pleasing it is pleasing.
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.
Harlot to Freedom [disambiguation]
![Harlot to Freedom [disambiguation]](https://writtencasey.blog/wp-content/uploads/2019/02/170626_r30182.jpg?w=767)
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
Parsifal/Sufi Connection
As I research Parsifal/-zifal, I like to jot unexpected correspondences. Here is one involving the Sufi tradition. The quick quote below is included in a Sufi meditation manual that came into my possession a year and a half ago.
“The radiance of the streamers emanating from the shoulder blades has, when unfolded, often been compared by Sufi’s with a mantle of light. In the Parsifal legends, it was because there were holes in the mantle of Anfortas that the evil forces of the night were able to attack him.” Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan. The Ecstasy Beyond Knowing: A Manual of Meditation. 2014. p47
Anafortas: the wounded Fisher King who guard the Grail at Munsalvaesche.
[Perceval arrives at the Grail Castle, to be greeted by the Fisher King. From a 1330 manuscript of Perceval ou Le Conte du Graal by Chrétien de Troyes, BnF Français 12577, fol. 18v]
Below is the context in which the quote above is presented. The reader is being given meditation methods to enliven these ideas. Parsifal is not mentioned again.
The (life) energy fields includes the electrostatic and electromagnetic fields, the aura, called bioluminescence (light body?), the sonic field, and perhaps fields of other alternate forces (chi force; etheric body, which pulses with your breath; celestial body.) p46
“The energy in the human electromagnetic field flows in manifold ways. You may distinguish [sic. seven total ways including]…..vi) streamers (plumes of energy). ” p46
The concept of energy pluming from your body can be illustrated by:
1) Energy streaming above the head, like the Pentecostal tongues of flame
2) Energy flashing from the temples “as the winged thoughts of Greek Mythology”
3) Energy pluming out from behind the shoulder blades as winglike or cloaklike.
4) Plumes around the temples, included with the wings of the Seraphim.
5) Plumes around the shoulder blades and ankles, as the wings found in images of Hermes or Mercury.
Khan proposes that attributing validity to the existence of such “higher” fields that have so far not yielded to the measurement of science, enables the accounting for some of the uncanny bouts of energy to which contemplatives refer. Examples:
- The quickening of the Holy Spirit to Christian mystics
- Ruh al-quddus to Sufi
- The Shekina among Jewish mystics.
“Actually, we [sic. science & mysticism] have been going along with the assumption that the body emits these fields, but what if the electromagnetic field, in fact, all components of the life field, were the templates, the mold, in which the body is being formed?” p. 47
One related meditation practice is listed among other practices given in this section.
- “Try to feel such streamers emanating from your shoulder blades. Envision them as unfolded and draped around your back, affording a kind of protection, or even as the robe investing the initiate into the Hermetic tradition. All the above practices will need to be extended to the aura of light.”p48
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.
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 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.
A Concealment of Collective Nouns
Morbid effery from the monkeyed,
Landed gentry.
Luxurious as late night coffee with heavy cream.
Laden.
All the crawfish fixing to get boiled.
Cloves of garlic
Resting on claws
Coalescing correlations.
Corrections to iterations
Deshelled and /de/tailed
Consumption.
Silver eyes against armor-alled all red
Whiskers a’faced to
Terraced tails.
Rampant mud and bug
With a dropped bouquet.
The slow crawl of the limited engagement
Leaves above my head.
Shining.
Í will make you look up and remember the sky.
You forget your breath
(Ampersand)
You lose a life.
I forged injunctions
Duplicitous & with steely reinforcement.
Silversmithing.
The pleasure of the written word. Consummate.
The change in our handwriting over time.
Fingering out your new font
Of pen scratch.
Scrawled.
Sprawling.
And my rhythm dictates a tempo for our saraband.
Shorthand.
You should always carry a handkerchief.
Cotton is fine. Print or naught.
It is not you that will use it
Anyhow.
So remove from that top drawer.
Overly ajar.
《》
A black rectangle
Framed in an indigo field. Ræching.
《》
What do we know of destruction?
Or why the paper need be canary.
Elongation in enunciation is
A mispronunciation.
Two blankets for the two ankles outside
Tonight.
Headed stones of fuzzy beasts
Sette
Atop footed cherrywood.
Vascular knotted circuitry
(<subterranean>)
A slip of the hips,
a flick of fingers.
Full affront of the suites
Merely one of a sort of resorts available
To your privy.
The pluck of pages.
Should they dissuade?
Is it prey to the præter-?
They said some really mean things about some really mean people. What do you suppose that means?
Felled and befell.
Sometimes it is hard to tell an l from I from a 1.
But no one ever mentions this.
A notice noticed. Even if misunderstood.
I drank the coffee to stay
Sharp in my sleep.
I sleep with a steno
Padded
Petrified enfossil.
A sordid seizure of a hardened fruit pit.
Dishollowed.
Where countenance meets disposition.
Heavy like
Wet denim.
cassette à fleur
I shift shoulders,
Crackly, a’tængled.
Naught not knotted.
Capacity and current
Contained by my spine.
Contracting.
Runs amok until
Corrected to both
convex & concave
Context.
Back braced
And arching.
Bending
Bow
To arrow.
Column of my chord.
Given immobility put to good use
In postures
Not posturing.
Posing but no poser.
Calf cramps
Paces inside
In sides.
Sidling as slides.
Sliding the sphere of my cəntər
Recanter.
And əntərs.
My abdomen to
My solar plexus
through
To my head.
Red , Terracotta , orange
Yellow , Green, Indigo.
Amid
White
Black.
All then red.
When cultivating a rose, they account for size, form, color,
Substance
Stem & Foliage
Balance
&
Proportion
(but wə can turn anything into a competition, I’d wager)
An ugly rose?
Hum
Birds and bees do not notice.
Lao Tzu or The American Rose Association Rule Book.
Misnamed. Mislabeled.
!
Dont let the roses pick up on that vibe.
Or the glass embracing it might break.
The rose and the vase.
This translates to a title.
WrittenCasey 