There comes a time
When your light doth shine
For the k/night
the fullest moon.
Super Pink arising,
Disquieting and almost, but not quite, too brightly.
There comes a time
When your light doth shine
For the k/night
the fullest moon.
Super Pink arising,
Disquieting and almost, but not quite, too brightly.
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.
His eyes go soft and unfocused.
His voice rises in pitch, ælmost imperceptibly.
Beauty without æwareness.
A repeated, unconcious nod recurring.
Stalking like æ big cat,
Æ Espy with mine brown eyes.
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.
In the States, pop culture and modern literature teachers will say,
“The most beautiful phrase in American English is ‘Cellar Door’ “.
A most~loved family member just texted me this line in the casual context of our
“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.
Remember the faces of the parents who birthed you, beautiful or ugly?
How they looked at your earliest memory.
Recall your face as a child,
As you saw yourself versus how you now recall yourself
The imaginary worlds you could create.
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.
Anytime you are thirsty, return here.
“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.
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
Do you not find it tiresome trying to sound so pretty?
Old pfotos with pfilters, clinging with cutesy lighting.
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.
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.
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.
He moves slowly.
Brow wiped against triceps brachii.
Dewy and salty. Deep inhalation.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
You speak of power; but, from me thoust draws thine.
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.
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.
The wind blows open the door.
I say, “thank you, but what for?”
“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.”
“Yes, which is also a Phœnix.”
“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.
I respect Silence’s blame; I miss thee just the same.
From me does the Stillness urge a disquieting benevolence coalescing into
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.
A faint light briefly illuminates the window across the way. It makes me wonder what changed interiorly.
A downy softness surrounds me today.
Time moves slowly.
Suddenly surprised, hearing geese honking. Flying higher than the lowly, snowy cloud cover.
A silly goose once puffed up and squared off with me, during an unintentional path crossing.
I backed down quickly, alarmed at how alarming it found me to be.
It makes me wonder of the owl who used to visit and play with me.
Twice swooping and snatching at the breezy, long ties of my sleeveless shirt.
It subsequently perched on the lowest limb of the nearest tree.
A father and his child came to see and commented of its beauty.
I stared at them, speechless and dumbstruck, still and in awe of what had just happened to me.
The great bird was tufted. Signifying it may have originated from the underworld.
What spirit concerns itself with me?
Here it comes: the strange peach’s stone of a memory, sitting in my stomach
So, I write backwards in Hebrew, which feels like forward to me; and, whilst I know the characters, I know not that which they mean.
Pure, pleasing automatic writing before I play.
My patron saint must be Augustine for I have nothing to give but The(se) Confessions.
When you find meaning in everything, everything suddenly becomes overwhelming.
Sannyasi is a medicant whose anagram corresponds to [dictamen].
Dictamen en Español/a equals opinion. In English, it is a pronouncement. Rule.
The plural? Dictamina.
I am æ’scribe, a vessel, a medium.
My sacred Contract.
Rubbing this pebble until it becomes a philosopher’s stone. The Great Work.
The rite of writing.
I know the goat, Baphomet, but only casually; yet, s/he asks me to call they/them by another sobriquet.
S/he asks me to play my favorite game, inquiring “What is the difference between
[CAVALRY] and [CALVARY]?”
“How very cavalier this question is which Y’all ask of this cavalier servente.”
They laugh; because, I have responded with a statement asking them to acknowledge the difference between two very different things.
“Parçigal sounds presumptuously pretentious,” they reply.
“She has not sounded at all, in ages, seemingly.”
Flowing like the blood of Abraham of Worms.
“To serve and fear,” he promised, along with gifting ten gold florins.
Sounds like the needed Judas.
Without villains, how do we know that ostensible hero?
What of we who relate to the in-between called ‘antiheroes’?
An alarm screams.
No siren, but a klaxon doppleganging.
To bind the demons, must you first summon them?
An odd gambit given that you may not have had their attention initially.
Diamonds of snow falling, whilst I read the broken man whose sobriquet is Lewis Carroll.
Here do I call him out by his birth name: Charles Lutwidge Dodgson.
And, any fan knows Alice’s hair was brown, not blonde.
An erudite form of witness protection.