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.

the strange peach’s stone

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

heavily.

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.

a medicant

My patron saint must be Augustine for I have nothing to give but The(se) Confessions.

Tolle lege.

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.”

what of we?

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.

the derivation of.

I try to catch him; but, I continue to miss him.

Once you gift a sobriquet, you lose all control.

Wolves in winter howling at the moon,

then listening with no other purpose than to hear.

The call and response of a preponderance of silence.

This is an answer.

Echoes across the canyon.

A loneliness in a crowd.

Wanting to be in rooms where the players lick their wounds, where the second hand smoke makes your lungs hurt the following day.

A reminder you are alive because it brings you closer to the stone and farther from the forceps.

▪︎

I move through time backwards.

I am younger the more I age.

No mere howls.

Magic so high it is all but taken for granted.

The line where sky meets land is unclear.

There is a hidden seam somewhere.

▪︎

An ochlophobia of ochlocracy, along with the oddment and its odoriferous.

Œnomel stings across my nostrils and coats my throat.

And, I taste the œvre of his lifetime.

A thick honey cloys.

The best people are salted with a touch of unrespectability:

too much disgusts,

just enough delights, and,

none at all renders bland.

▪︎

The harrowing of hell taught us how nature abhors a vaccum.

Soteriology does not necessitate an orthodoxy.

I hear you child. Let me show you alchemy is mathematical.

The derivation of a unit circle before the golden ratio.

asking a seashell for a sermon.

And, the girl laughed because she made a small error in her breathing exercise;

but, she kept her rhythm and regarded the incorrect exhalation as a ‘wrong’ key struck on a piano.

“I must keep to the tempo. What matters is the playing, not striking the ‘right’ key.”

She turned to the cat, Dinah, to see if she agreed.

Dinah had noticed nothing; and, this made the girl giggle harder and wonder:

Who is the pet and who is the master?

The girl had been thinking about thinking.

Dinah was being.

And, the girl wonders, if she cannot trust herself, why should she trust her mistrust of herself.

Then, she realized she was figuratively

asking a seashell for a sermon

instead of admiring it with determined purposelessness.

Bohemian Phoenix

I used to be a Sky Teller, back in the prehistoric.

A’sat still, watching the welkin change.

Divination by changing cloud cover,

reading the weather like tarot.

Mystics struggle with the trappings of modernity.

I remember the night when all the stars fell.

My parents thought me fast asleep; but,

thinking something does not make it necessarily so.

So, I crept outdoors and froze,

star struck in horrific awefulness.

I saw blazing comets plummeting.

They looked like rapidly descending jellyfish,

sinking from the the Firmament to our Below.

Poussière d’étoiles

And, in that instant, my soul became

restless; and,

I knew my heart would never hold still again.

And, I became a hum’bird long before I turned into the ibis.

pebble once cast

I wolf whistle, lowly.

Two fingers pushed between parted lips, touching tongue.

And, I wonder…

Why do people need writing prompts?

They preempt.

Suggestions not needed.

Explicit requests enjoyed, nonetheless.

°

“You think I was talking about you?” he asks.

“It doesn’t matter. I heard you, anyhowl,” I say.

°

This, something, but, not just anything.

Head hazy open because it is heavy.

°

An attractive, not unwelcome, nuisance.

Needing to be handled. Straightened out.

Make hard to render malleable.

Remade and dripping.

Thumb it your mouth, moth.

Carry your hardwood.

I can carry the water.

I still thumb the pebble you once cast to me.

rite before this winter.

And, the quick of a moment felt so sad that even her burger seemed a dash bleu.

It was not, to her chagrin.

She always doted on cheesy ones.

She makes sure to try to sound measured because it’s the thing to do when she feels so unmeasured.

And, how still it is and how alone this is.

Small and full; tall and hungry.

Orestes and the Erinyes fighting over family improprieties.

She could write a myth lickety split.

Mice in high heeled, specially blown, glass slippers are the new beauty queens; because, in this pandemic climate, only the prettiest of the common vermin thrive.

Rodents cleansing the wicked.

Nut cracking and just in time for the holidays, come the Furiæ.

Three sannyasins of the Erinyes.

One of whom is Megaera, tempest decrying oath breaking authority.

Carrying wood yields returns in words, historically.

Nemo auditur propriam turpitudinem allegans.

She had once been found to be part of a common scold,

just another pretty shrew.

Some illegitimate, termagent harpy, ranting and bullying.

A peevish, malignant, clamorous, spiteful, vexatious, and turbulent one.

But, by this reckoning, he is found to be more shrew than she.

Augustįne in autumn

a continent of consonants.

There’s inconsistent consonance amidst the constant dissonance; and,

it makes her so tired that she could not possibly sleep.

This continent of consonants sees few vow well.

The scent of an uncapped pen’s ink funnels up her philtrum to violate her nostrils.

It makes her wet.

The sun grew too bright, so she saved her daylight time to accrue an extra midnight hour.

Preparing for Persephone, abiding until the winter solstice.

Her handwriting abruptly changes its font; and, she understands she is now taking dictation from a new source.

So, she stalks the coquettish house in the ebony of the deep evening,

listening to its moans as she strides down the strange steps of the home’s erogenous zones.
The walls writhing in their dripping striptease,

scraped off wallpaper revealing more wallpaper covering more wallpaper.

Hard wood floors caressing her soles with cold smooth.

Door jambs whisper secrets most care not to know.

Roof hovering, dominating, hiding the stars that may be falling.

Too many patterns pronounce; and, she’s so consumed by seeing them that she forgets to keep looking.

The Truth of a trickster may be bald and unabashed; but,

it is never ugly.

She is an unoccupied sleeve of a cigarette vending machine.

Coin plinked, toggle tugged, message received:

Empty. Try another.

Brand loyalty is an unaffordable luxury in times of scarcity.

So, smoke ’em if you got ’em, for tomorrow we die, again.

She pours two fingers of spirit, then tops it with two more until only the thumb remains.

The Holy Ghost resents the Father and the Son; but,

holds the Fallen Madonna(,) dear.

So, She houses the Spirit tightly

against Her breasts

because God doesn’t talk to Her;

and, She refuses to speak to angels.

The chaotic neutral must be just that

because a single leaf fell here instead of there.

Cats don’t have to

Talking heads bobble.

My inner witch cobbles an awful howl of a hyena’s cackle.

So, I cast myself into the prowling orange cat and he into me;

leaving my body still and purring, and I becoming him trotting over superfluous, left leaves.

Leavening. Bread trying to rise on the level.

Yeasty and active.

Pouncing high onto window ledges to stick my wet, pink nose against panes where it surely doesn’t belong.

Letting slant rhymes mime poetry because cats don’t have to be wordsmiths.

the tweezers I lost

I, coaxed under the quilt, am.

Say the following, aloud, three times:

~guilt~

~less~

~inning~.

Through open shutters, panes, and, screens does the breeze force a shudder from these

curtains.

And, you try to wait for the good ones to come; but,

meanwhile, you wonder,

Is the barre too high?

He could pull a hamstring, stretching,

while I’m stood there,

en pointe, waiting.

(((Suddenly, the tweezers I lost,

they appear(

after a lengthy diatribe) delivered to Know~One)

Socratic Circles….)

…I told you I’d try)

((( (…) )))

And, like a moth, I wait for his light to turn on;

yet,

were they to read this, each might think it’s about him.

Bringing the medicine of chaos, I return.

Full and hollow like a cæctus tree.

A talented rearranger.

At the end of the day, before bedtime, a poet is simply a talented rearranger.

The end of the thought starts with, “to let me use the words of another.”

The bass voices sink the harmony; weighted and anchored anglers’ lines

reeling.

Battened down with closed windows.

The marine layer of the Sound meeting wild, smokey arboreal particulate,

here in the convergence zone.

And, her windowsills have been sealed tight well-over eighty hours.

Yet, her eyes burn and itch anyways.

She figured past smoking would better serve her presently.

And, there remains the novel

Virus

Innoculum.

And, sometimes, sleeping suspends;

so, she plays with shadows and lights,

(while her door hopefully bæres the passover mark)

Curtain ampersand Apperature.

Sans breezy volumes of infinite emptiness, posed.

Avec ennui

possessed.

Pretty Bird and his Lady Zen Archer.

Show myself

My shoulders don’t just fold;

they collapse.

My upper lip moves, caught on a hook

being tugged by an unseen angler.

My lungs forget how to work.

My brain refuses to accept the notion that people want to show kindness to strangers.

They.

My fingers sign as though suffering a rheumatoid attack.

Snout buried.

And, in this moment,

I wish to become invisible.

But,

I show myself anyways.

A corvid in the time of covid

Outside my red barn door sounds the ferryman’s horn.

He smells the stink of my freedom,

his fishers of wo/men casting rods with wormed hooks.

¤

I listen; and,

the automated time operator says, “after the beep it will be eight eleven o’clock.”

¤

I espy,

perched, a corvid in the time of covid.

¤

Together, we watch the casting of lines,

the sinkers dragging down the lures,

bobbers poised to tattle if I bite the bait.

¤

But, I don’t.

Together, we hold still.

Ellipses kissing

¤

{

■■■■■■

■■□□■■

■■■□□□

□■□■□■

□□□■■■

□□■■□□

□□□□□□

}

¤

And, when the late afternoon light becomes all a bit too bright,

the bird and I retreat within

to watch my curtains’ shifting as they breathe with the Sound’s breeze

We calculate the curvaceous calculus of the wind’s volume,

inside the cavernous gutted carcass of the scarlet barn.

¤

I ask the oscine passerine a riddle of

equality regarding the allotment of the equine,

“Can you divide a dead, old man’s seventeen horses in proper proportions between his three sons?”

The old crow caws out a throated laugh and asks, “Can you tell me the mathematical significance of the eight of wands?”

¤

It is technically a statement.

It is phrased as a figurative question¿

¤

In the evening, silent, we conspire about

The Great Escape

through the bramble of branches, not the seam of the green where we’d be

upwind and easy for the Dogs.

Shall we carry squeak toys just in case they get a whiff of our freedom¿

thin leather

Just stupid hints at ineffable words and crossed out lines.

I keep missing you in and out of time.

The waver of your favours is both bravado and tremolo,

like a strange moon pulling unpredictable tides.

Outside, my flowers play peekaboo;

first time the terrarium ever bloomed.

Opening for the sun, taking sweet, painstaking, time.

The posture of a finger poised to press

the crisp wrinkles of scorched, thin leather.

Flesh,

I now call you Bewilder.

Overheard

Overheard, today, in a doctor’s waiting room.


A couple, probably in their late 80’s, check in. They are feeble and hunched over and very grey. They are given new patient forms.

The wife sits down, looks at the form, and yells at her husband who’s still ambling away from the counter. “Harold! What gender do you identify with today?”

“WHAT?!,” yells hard of hearing Harold.

“What gender pronoun do you want them to use? I’ll write it in all caps!”

“What? Oh, gender. Does it say ‘sex’?” Harold yells.

“No! If it did I’d just write ‘yes’.”

<I have lost it at this point. The intake nurses have lost it. The nurse about to call my name is just smiling and watching.>

Laughing. I tell her, “you made my day.”

“My mother taught me that. Anytime they ask about ‘sex,’ you write ‘yes.’ “

I wanted to share the wisdom.

desire to manipulate matter.

Two of them were here; and, then, they weren’t.

And, she never met either but she knew them both.

It made her feel sad; it made her efforts feel useless.

And, both feelings felt indulgent, so she resented the emotions, to boot.

“That’s really irksome.”

“That I’m unafraid to say, ‘I don’t know’ ? “

“You could speculate.”

“But, if I did not tell you, ‘I don’t know’ before speculating then I devalue the currency of my words at large.”

In American English, the most beloved sentence laid upon ears may be, “That’s my baby.”

The refrigerator moans through its vocal coils like a horny impotent cooling out.

It boils down to a teleological desire to manipulate matter.

I’m not your adversary; I just enjoy being adversarial.

Call me ‘the devil’s advocate,’

pleas/e.

Pleased to meet you.

I got no-name to guess.

if you fold shoulders

Pulling in deep to hear him say, half asleep, “I can do it.”

Can you do it on command; can you do it without hands?

I mumble, “give me a modicum of good sleep.”

Head nuzzling under his chin.

“Let’s doze. The world wants me awake; but, I’m not ready to face it.”

A hand moves to rest on an ass.

I hear a man’s bicycle’s spokes whir by my open window and he hums beautifully as he rides.

I slip from the bed’s cocoon, to part and peak through my blinds’ slats; but, he’s already breezed by.

The neighbors putter in the shared garden, a new bird feeder being installed.

I get dressed to do an investigative prowl around my block before coffee.

As I walk, I understand that I am created by intersections of energetic threads being woven together by a macro loom.

And, I remember: if you fold shoulders and make yourself small, mija, that is how people will treat you.

Avoid.

And, a voice in a void is worthless without resonance. Show me your panacea, boy.

Echoes of Sette in cassettes.

Pure white noise is the sound of a resonant channel chattering in the background. Before we had silicon and screens, they used the rubbing of crickets’ legs, the guttural thrust of a frog’s croak. Working like a little whirling dervish screw driving its way into foreheads.

And, I return. And, the caffeine calls. And, my pour over waits for the water to boil.

successfully arching

Sentinel surveillance of the syndromic and the asymptomatic.

A coalesence of convalescence conjuncting with a tyranny of averages.

Handmade beds; and, piles of filled in journals.

The area below a curve

; &,

a line above a

word.

Gating shepards watching Anafortas exploiting the incomplete mantle of Parcival’s effulgence.

The ecstatic trauma of successfully arching the black swan of your black sheep dreams is becoming the dog chasing a squirrel. Knowing not what to do if it actually caught it.