Hofstadter’s Fugue

“Thermodynamics is explained by statistical mechanics,” just as my soul and body grow worn from being worn.

Stretching out and becoming more comfortable against my skin.

Soul soothing body, but only through use and over~time.

Denim jeans worn over and over, over time and spaces, until setting.

Conversely, “statistical mechanics can bypassed by talking at the level of thermodynamics.”

The same way I can ignore my tattered soul by wearing my favorite pair of jeans and suddenly feel whole without a whole lot of thinking.

Body soothing soul.

Into the resolution of contrapuntal composition.

Quotes taken from Douglas Hofstadter’s I Am A Strange Loop

ISBN 978-0-465-03079-8

Mind your step

Looking up at the sky, he tripped and fell.

Plummeting down the dried up well.

Twelve feet down.

Dark, dank, stinking.

Now, twice a day he looks up

To see

The noonday sun

And the midnight moon.

And, when it’s lit down there it’s bright.

Otherwise, very dark.

Sacrifice.

Sanctimony.

Symphony.

Sanctuary.

Sacred.

Scared.

Sacrilegious.

Religious.

A strangely swapping of places of an I and E,

at the maddened haberdasher’s tea party.

sacrosanct

I observe him when he does not know I æm there.

Who he is when know~one is seemingly æround.

An ænimal in his natural state.

Sacrosanct

His eyes go soft and unfocused.

His voice rises in pitch, ælmost imperceptibly.

Beauty without æwareness.

A repeated, unconcious nod recurring.

Like præying.

Stalking like æ big cat,

Æ Espy with mine brown eyes.

southern gothic

Shining teeth and blooms of the moon.

The watering can found overturned this morn; spilt was last night’s prepared water.

I tried to tell you, “let it age,” yet, what you heard was, “it is not a game.”

What was actually said only Know~One knows,

because having a steno pad is not the same as having a stenographer.

Shorthand and chicken scratch scrawlings.

Pecking and clucking.

A woman once asked my paternal grandfather,

“What do you do with an mean rooster?”

He replied, “take your hands and hold him beneath the water until he falls a bit still.”

So, she did.

Upon coming too, the bird nearly tore her eyes out.

“You did not hold him under long enough,” he dead-panned,

when she presented her grievance to him.

Careful whose advice you follow,

particularly if they keep one hand in their pants’ pocket.

Might just be a touch of sardonic, Louisiana Southern gothic.

a’new cellar door

In the States, pop culture and modern literature teachers will say,

“The most beautiful phrase in American English is ‘Cellar Door’ “.

I disagree.

A most~loved family member just texted me this line in the casual context of our

family history:

I died in the wool romantic and an idiot.”

Sent to me with no pretense of impressing; sent in utter, spur of the moment honesty.

Howl could this ever be topped?

Impeccable and to be aspired toward.

I end the prior sentence improperly, purposefully.

Deference.

faced as a child

Remember the faces of the parents who birthed you, beautiful or ugly?

Or, unknown.

How they looked at your earliest memory.

Recall your face as a child,

As you saw yourself versus how you now recall yourself

To Be

The imaginary worlds you could create.

Edifice

of Joy.

How your laugh howled with no concern for volume.

How you could cry freely when it hurt,

When you were treated poorly.

All the promises you made to your future.

All the things you swore you would never do.

The jobs you would have.

That thriving trove.

Oh, and all those places you would go.

Up and over where the sidewalk would end.

The edge of the world.

The thrill of the steep cliff over which you would fall off when sky met horizon.

There would be dragons to slay, or better yet, befriend.

The letters that gave you trouble as you learned to scrawl.

S’s, proper formed but backwards facing.

The pictures you proudly drew poorly.

The smell of a new-to-you, second hand book. A cheap, new sketch pad.

The sibling you craved but never had; the one you had and came to adore.

Recall falling apart frequently and immediately remaking yourself.

Tantrums displayed or bottled up.

Therein is the eternal beauty of the fleeting.

And, it is yours. No one else’s.

A child, still, in these hills, still.

Anytime you are thirsty, return here.

my hair predicts

“Everything went pear~shaped,” he confesses.

Oh my, no wonder your food comes out in messes.

The sudden rain gusts down in slants,

My tresses go straight into ringlets.

My hair predicts humidity, precipitation, and barometric pressure better than any meteorologist.

I leave the house with it styled one way to return, from a walk, with a totally different look.

It is the Scotch-Irish of my bloodline.

Bearing more neanderthal DNA than the majority.

Whatever that may mean.

Squeak, the cat, goes exorcist onto the door’s screen,

Startling me by meeting mine eyes with hers at an unnatural, five foot level.

Paws splayed in strange ways.

Twenty minutes later, she is asleep in her bubble wrap insulated, amazon box.

What a joy to see that what I perceive as trash becomes a highly prized toy.

do not post this

Here's your goat head on a post.

Ewe wanted this attention, no?

And, should they challenge you again, their head wilt be piked by these unknowing

hands of mine.

No pride found in these lies

Of yours

Do you not find it tiresome trying to sound so pretty?

Old pfotos with pfilters, clinging with cutesy lighting.

Let go.

Why do you write to appeal when you could write things a’pealing (like bells ringing) to the attention of those whose attention you find so desiresome?

Herein is the hag birthed.

Do not make them desire who you used to be.

Make them desire being seen for whom they are.

Imperfect.

Nothing more erotic than this.

They care not about you, but about howl you make them feel.

Phantasy is lovely but be~cums quite unbecoming

in actual sun.

The tired and haggard seeking untrue beauty that is, in reality, quite unseemingly.

Lies and tired eyes.

Don’t worry; just bounce.

Know~one hates you more than ewe hate yourself.

Why care?

Reflection of their face to themselves and to their eyes, reduces them to knees.

Which you have never seen when you get on yours.

Remain true, because you are exhasting.

The exotic is often insincere.

And, if some-1 tells you it is unflattering to speak like this?

Expect to find another faux goat head staked.

Pria~puss is just a laugh.

Who tells you that you wilt embarrass yourself,

Bye, speaking thusly?

Persephone is undeniable.

She cannot tell you how ewe feels but she do.

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.

being what is eaten

Speak with your face and fingertips.

Louder than words uttered.

Understated is better than stated.

And, one can tell many things about another one, by how they treat a vegetable.

The way they wash, the knife they choose and how they slice.

Dice thrown; and, the dye cast.

What music shall I choose to play for this death.

Even vegans must confess life feeds on life feeds on life.

Does that empurpled onion reduce you

To tears?

A seasoned cast iron skillet does not need soap.

Brushed with bristles.

Oiled up and then left alone.

A serrated saw to slice tomatoes to preserve their fleshly consistency.

A fat, straight blade to make onions pay for arrogance.

Slapping herbs in the face, to conjure the aromatic gift.

The coolness of cilantro is a hipster’s voice you desire to hear but also wish would shush.

Tasting whilst you bring demise because you wilt not be caught up in surprise

At what you create.

And, should you tell me, “I do not cook.”

I wonder, “Why does fear of failure have you so shook?”

Prostrate before a pinch of sea salt.

The kindly courtesan whom doth correct all.

Pray for the favorable countenance of a full garlic clove.

This is enclave.

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.

cheap jokes

Like how clothes made from cheesecloth may suit one’s fancy, thereby, I reserve the right to mispell words in ways that pleas me.

Intentional irony. Is that a definition of satire?

<my eyelashes innocuously and stupidly batting>

The brief rain smelt of Alabama in its kindest springtime offerings.

The weather done did my hair.

Humidity curling my tresses like wrapping ribbon struck and pulled against a scissors edge.

Popping curls like my ass and cunt twerking.

Locking into this collision course.

And, in this northeastern dry climate, the slightest bit of humidity becomes me and makes me brazen enough to speak á la a way uncummly.

The intentional rye~bald, of an insecure man’s combover.

I come on too strong when I feel too unsmall.

A tiny mouse can tower. But, when other vermin shrink,

I over think

my place.

And, you kunst get my joke without finding it to be funny.

Because, rite now that is as good as an hysterically laughing crack~owl.

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.