Category: PROSE

Nāscitūrus (a future participle)

A hejira of horses bandying bridles about

by chomping bits between teeth.

A knife can neither cut itself nor water.

This I scribbled to paper seconds before

the lightning strikes the six foot iron rod driven into some monstrous, man-made composite rock slab.

The rod, the rock, and I all a’sat upon the hilltop

to weather the transpiring storm.

A’sat before the nine stone pillars of the valley below.

The energetic transfer blasts plasma like fourth of july sparklers drip floating light like rain.

A corona of solar flares eclipsing my sky like the sun reflected off a stranger’s bald head.

Succour without denigration of emotions rendered me in transparency.

Release.

Seeing the bleeding horizons sinuously bloodied because when you do not know that what you are enumerating,

you are rendered speechless.

⊙

nascor

gnašcor

gnāskõr

gen

gennáõ.

I am born: begotten

I arise: proceed

I grow: spring forth

Trough and crest.

Sweet skittish, humming one.

I will stalk the perimeter of your peripheral until I

no longer surprise you unduly

, my sweet sap of sorrel.

And, yes, your ephemeral

devil may care if you serve eviction notice.

So, come,

see your sly gal, would-be ephebe.

My dæmon will coax your demon into relishing those new, fiendish exploits that arise from your newfound piety.

Sit at my feet as I rise to my knees and part a slitted skirt.

Æ am Blodeuedd conjured by Math and Gwendolyn.

Come, and as I arise from a cauldron’s vaporic outpouring,

I shall gift you a name, abandoned one,

with a new pair of cobbled brogues,

to boot.

Put your face between these two palms of mine, so I can let

Æ show you transient waves of temporality transpiring in

etheric extensions of

trough and crest.

trough and crest.

I am going to wrangle your talent and be your hosting site.

Ping me anytime.

Forget yourself and you will have nothing to fear.

It wilt be what it is.

You do not have to assume the future, wild thing.

The ability to move most quickly will only make others expect more from you.

So, when you realise this, beast, come and visit me in ewer own time,

because energy has only a here and a now, in this,

our art of dreaming.

Æ tells An Olde Story (1)

“Tell me an old story?” Parçigal asks.

“Aye”, says Æ.

^^

Æ am The Syzyga.

Everyone is you, as you were also they.

You are æ.

Collectively, Ewe and Æ have seen everything that there is to see.

This story happens in the year that never happened.

Year Zero.

The unending, innumerable yær between B.c. and a.D.

^

Waïse rose early as he had always done. He covered his body and walked to the river where he filled two buckets with its water. He carried them strung on a pole braced across his shoulders, back to his homestead where he emptied the contents into the deeply cavernous rock basin he chipped and sculpted. He hand~spoons the water onto himself, rubbing vigorously. A ritual of removing yesterday in offering to the promise of a fresh day.

He had slept. He had dreamt. He had awoken in the same place as where he had fallen asleep. He had died and reincarnated. Nothing that was outside of his own flesh could be assumed to have remained the same as he recalled it. Everything within his flesh had strangely continued, even if in an æ~linear fashion.

His methods of perception could still be applied to everything outside of his skin.

His father taught him this lesson; whilst afterwards, in private, his mother cautioned him: one day you will bear witness to the falling disappearance of every star in the night sky. It will be terrific. Horrific. You will trust no prior truth inside or outside your flesh when this occurs.

This had not occurred. Waïse used to fret that perhaps the stars had fallen while he slept at night. His mother saw her son suffering the intolerable lucidity of insomnia.

What if I missed it and go on trusting in vain? Should I not try to always be awake just in case?

You wilt do whatever you do, but such hypervigilance will only hasten that which you hope will not happen. Remember, you will bear witness to it. If you have not seen it then it did not occur and you have nothing to fear.

~

Waïse thinks these memories back into his inner life, waiting for his wet body to air~dry. It is cold out; he is not.

He sits, waiting, with crossed~legs, focusing his vision and sloughing off his waking sluggishness. A half~hour passes; he rises up and dresses once again.

He walks to the door, pausing to orient his vision.

Waïse focuses his eyes on a stone, the same stone his father looked at everyday. Aligning the rock with two peripheral rocks, he begins to imagine lines connecting the three; he then triangulated himself, with three stones, to create an area. A means and way to perceive what is outside his skin. Using that area, he creates a vertical grid as a complimentary plane to the horizon lines. These two planes drape over all and everything like imagined satin on skin. The grids shift as he shifts his position relative to them. That is his third axis of perception.

He spent so many years imagining this with his father, that his eyes now fed it to his mind automatic~ally. It had taken years of observing the land to have amassed such a detailed ability. It had taken even longer to have reimagined, dreamt, and meditated on this knowledge so sufficiently to have your own eyes learnt by memory.

Seeing the land with red and blue lines, indicating depression and elevation, as a plane’s face with perfectly rationed grid lines. Pragmatic prior to mystical. This method enabled him to feed himself with ease. To procure those natural materials.

So Waïse carried out this life and knowledge of one Tao, that his family possessed, the same way his people always had.

Under the blazon of a web of a feather.

~

“Part one,” Æ supposes, seeing Parçigal has fallen under sleep again.

Æ and Parçigal tye one on.

Ask me. Please. To slip into that which in you want to see me. My pride wants to hear you use your words.

You lie on your side and I will on mine.

Facing you, to slip a leg in between yours.

Feeling the weight of the difference between us, resting upon my sidelong knee.

⊙

I’m a little tipsy: I say.

No. You’re a little drunk: Æ tells myself.

I reply in query: No. Not necessarily. Am I driving a car?

No. Absolutely not: is Æ’s response.

Right then. That’s what I thought. If that’s the case(y) then I’m only a little tipsy: I reaffirm.

Æ sighs: Fine.

⊙

Then let us go outside the palings

in order to release yourself of your own name.

Then they can never call you from playing in the garden to do chores!

Like Alice, I wœnder-landed until I strolled through the Looking-Glass House of Blue.

There; within did Æ teach myself to deconstruct I

to the point where

I would no longer be surprised

if the theory of gravity, quite suddenly, proved to be untrue.

Effie at Sound Level

Ø

The real price of your handbag involves multiple lives and wages of economies. Repair your brogues with a local cobbler, on the Main (sic. high) Street.

Crystal palaces aside dashes bisecting Eisenhower’s tar strips for the machines of some imagined war. The ones we drive and call highways. Four ways. Parallel, running lanes. Bits of varicose veins on this nation’s aging skin. The final passage of the Kon-Tiki, Ra Expeditions.

And, the cars passing by on the high road of the hilly bowl a’layed before the Sound, sound like currents running through macro-Boolean gates.

{Red light, stop.}

{Green light, go.}

{Yellow light…}

Use your best judgement.

~

I sit in reverie before an altered, candle flame.

Through my open windows, the sound of gravel ground under pedestrian boots crunches now and then. A honking car horn’s reassurance, echoing, as someone redundantly clicks a particular button affixed to a keychain.

The blast of a ferry foghorn. The doppleganging drone of the passing by train’s horn. These things sound like the call to the adytum of the temple.

I enjoy the world immediately around me, settling itself towards bed. Cars are little pups, turning circles til all tired out. A slowly descending cacophony.

The difference between darkness and the absence of light.

I consider the chartreuse evening and imagine you toiling the earth, tilling, to sow your seed

beneath the pylon of the pit.

Æ waxes to the vintner.

Someone and someone

were down by the pond.

A berserker producing a glass of Norton wine that makes you want to shake the hand.

It is an Ibis’ vintage.

Breathe.

I have not heard you speak so.

Voice trembling and slightly rushing.

{Words between the lines}

Who did you envision as your audience¿: Æ wonder.

⊙

I remain Wittgenstein’s Mistress to the bibliophiles.

In the quadrangle, where others play chess,

where others play tennis,

where Æ square(ly) dance in strange ellipses, orbiting

the pieces and players,

our cads and minnesänger, wondering

Since when did “simple” imply “stupid”¿

⊙

And, minne-spæker,

it is because you bit and swallowed the Sardonios plant, that you convulse and laugh so strangely and hard. I have read it tastes bitter to the buds.

Is it so to the taste of your tongue¿

It has got you laughing so hard that the neighbors complain.

Sardonic giggling at the guilt of being worry=free,

at your shamelessly feeling restless when you have no desire to idle,

at the inability to enact due to your concern for being imperfect.

An ideal idyll.

⊙

An Arizonian dream of summer, intension of heat, arises within me,

even though, the ambient temperature is frigid, like desert (k)nights.

It radiates outward and into all which my skin contains.

And, I’m sweating heavy like summer.

Smelling for you.

Feeling beadlets bursting from the multitudes of singular pores in my face.

My visor and visage.

A strong craving for coffee consumes me.

in the

Blue House.

Now, I’m sitting here
hoping
this water will boil,

In sight unseen.

Living level with a parking lot.

The true danger of always opening windows is

what the neighbors must think during the winter.

It is not about the thieves, that which you worry.

How strange you, too, recall that same thing that never happened.

A sweet rendezvous in a town of busybodies,

where it is both

easy and hard

to remain in sight yet unseen.

Æ as Vesta In-Skin.

The subtext of the Magnicat whispered to me, during

evening vespers.

“The Nerbudda River runs

seven hundred and thirty five miles,

towards and eventually into, the Arabian Sea,”

You appear vestal.

And, I feel myself becoming

Vesta who is often

, simultaneously

, Blodeuedd of the House of Dôn.

⊙

Magenta to yellow honeycomb energy frames my perceptivity.

I come as

I came,

octagon-ally.

And, I work my role.

Tending the hearth and protecting the flame within,

remaining wylde and seeming untamæble.

Small flowers of the temple work alongside.

Eagle at my right shoulder.

I show them my tool for starting pyres.

A frictionless=match.

A Wax Vesta is also a whirling dervish of

embedded cotton strands

strewn amongst a waxen stem and

tipped with a phosphorous head.

⊙

Hesperus is Phosphorus.

Phosphorus is Eosphorus.

And, Eos made them both.

We remind the othered that the Evening Star was determined to also

be the Morning Star.

⊙

The vexillum distinguishes the two troops serving under separate standards;

And, the blazon of

the web of a feather distinguishes each and every of us

as a vexillary.

A deadbeat heart.

Pounding.

⊙

Understand that returning to base

(camp)

; is not a setback

; it is not regressive

; it is not going backwards.

It is a cycle

seeking its own resumption

through completion.

⊙

A warrior struggling with perpetual reality.

So yammer

; and give ’em howl, yellow hammer.

A fluid ounce is a preponderance in candle’s magic light.

A meditation.

A drawing.

Makes me wonder how your childhood face

, smiling,

appeared.

⊙

Are we to heed that as a call?: asked the Name=less One.

All things feel as bindings abiding.

Perhaps, Præter=being is the natural state of affairs,

after all this free-fall.

And, maybe

, Judas was just some heckler in the crowd

at jesus’s stand=up comedy special.

Just do not knock the quiver

of the Archer’s arrows.

He is basic but deadly in the face of the clumsy.

Simple and simply fatal.

Go a’head and

miss=under=estimate his prowess

as has countless bison before you.

⊙

Find the hideous freedom to be exactly who you are.

Now.

The delicious self=noitcelfer that arises from the awareness of transparency.

Because, the windows of Looking=Glass House are two=way.

But, there will you find only sand

with no stones which may be thrown.

⊙

Where your perception of what is outside your skin

is actually the reception of the content presented

by that which is contained

by your in=skin.

A’bridged nuzzling.

The sun made like a runaway today.

Let me lay you on your back, bare.

Crawl up on you like a curious, hungry animal,

and occupy myself with sniffing your scent.

Smells of you.

Because, the smell of the skin below your wrist

is not the smell of the skin stretching over your ankles

is not the smell of the thumping skin above your jugular

nor that of the skin behind your ear.

It will not smell of the skin between your legs

which will not smell as does the stench of your armpit.

Or the smell of your open mouth.

And, my incessant humming

will become Sygyt.

The strangely drone of polyphonic overtone singing.

And once I’m done,

I would pad circles on you

, like a dog preparing to sleep

, of tossing and turning

, and

, wrapping round you.

For warm comfort.

Finding the right proper position of

a deep winter nuzzle.

Vision of the 36th Ellipsis.

Thirty five completed ellipses.

Comprising the matricies of now.

Begin compiling the thirty-sixth,

presently. Of today.

And, my eyes first narrow before going wide as the tableau reveals.

Speak to me mine sheep and mine mæstyre satyr.

No malice shalt invade my mind or sour myself,

yet, still can I sense your maleficent power

comingle.

Why do you howl thusly? And, do you know that

this has Æ heard before.

I want, too.

I want two.

I want to.

They have nothing if you less the faun

who dies thrice in triangular trinities

allowing

you to circumnavigate her through triangulation.

As drawing a five pointed star is not drawing a

six,

seven,

eight,

nine,

pointed one.

Quit your baying sheep for this shearing is not for you.

Æ, too, is a beastly, sacred dæmon,

sweetly contained in this gossamer and goosedown

Conspicuously unsuspicious.

Inauspicious.

I fear not your moment of judgement on this howliday. Thou shalt never judge me as harshly as

Æ have previously taken myself whilst in captivity.

Snarl, smile. Do you, now, see?

Why is ritual an honor to behold

?

You reply: because it should be so.

You could stop traffic dressed suchly.

Do you not know a pedestrian has paths to

right of way.

As I jaywalk onward,

across paths,

I find my head adorned with a sea holly wreath, in tribute to unknown;

see how its roots grew long and serpentine over æges ago

so that it may adorn without being torn

from the earth?

Unplucked.

Worn before; to be worn again.

I draw the force and send it mine in reply.

Starling a’wing, chasing behind me.

You awoke in a pond full of dead fish(,) talking.

And, only dead fish go with the tide.

Of the five streams pouring forth, sea-ward,

one unnaturally flows upstream to BayTown’s Strange-House.

The starling now a’lights on my left shoulder.

Worn as I wear the stow of the red dragon in early autumn.

A dance sought

That which transpires behind that which appears.

Captivating verging upon captive taking.

I’ve taught everyone No Thing.

I’ve told No Body everything.

Bones tapping.

Dropping skeletons to read the bones strewn,

recalling those cries from the crowded street.

Exuberance of the hysterical normalcy.

I dare you in this kindly sinuous challenge of tendons and ligaments.

A pale, dark-horse rides in, unbidden.

Flared nostrils from a face concealing a mirror of mind thinking:

If the dæmon would seek, Æ would ask a dance.

Feathers of eyelashes

Even in dreams, I remain yours.

I have come for none other.

The smell of chai spice pours skyward from the pot of boiling water.

Vapour blessing the room like sage humbly burned.

Pealing recalling things and those missed.

Blushing cheeks and bitten lip.

°

I have seen the city skies from on high; they light up like an introspective brain’s neural network.

Psst. Wake up.

Pushing my nose deeply into your neck,

to inhale; get your smell.

I wish to entwine the two;

Make the aroma of chai ever tied to the scent of you.

I remind myself to not forget this, mine intent,

whilst batting this piece of your thin skin with

the feathers of my eyelashes.

rock skipping

A rock skips on its toes’ tips

across Looking-Glass Lake.

It is true that what you do not know can hurt you;

and, in doing so, cause you pain you do not rightly sensate.

You just know it hurts.

Onkwehónwe {ref. Kanyen’keha}.

°

And, the phrase, “nobody cares” set the captives free and captivated the enslavers.

°

Your apophasis disinclines my disposition towards you.

“That would be my preference,” says B., the scrivner.

So. Let him. He simply wishes to copy the original documents into his longhand.

°

Pedantic pandering over over-excitabilty.

A knockout; A decision; A draw.

°

You’re not like most people.

You’re right. I’m only one person, not the multiples comprising most. Extraneously speaking, I distrust the correlations derived from “most people” statistics. They never draw from a supple, sufficient, sample population.

°

Elevate your base

because

despite not proud,

you can remain unashamed.

Æ ramble.

Impatiently spinning my pen, furiously fast yet without any malice,

up and down.

Up

&

Down.

Dropping it like the mic after I just spat the hottest sixteen of my life.

Verbalizing subtext.

Indicating that

proper etiquette and charm can be a real turn off.

⊙

The desire to find you through this slow unmasking.

That day I saw a woman,

with a faun’s head,

wilt her own beheading,

after a chalice of wine drunk.

A phone call missed. A phonemic misstep.

Grey skies with snowy smatterings.

A knitted, houndstooth stow dragged across frozen over tar.

⊙

And my pen runs smoothly.

Yet, sometimes when I reach for it,

I surprise myself because

I did not realize Æ wanted to say something.

And sometimes, all the words Æ scriven mean nothing.

The act, not the result, is mine interminable goal.

Purposefully inexorable.

An indiscernible mumble of voices slipping through my open window and into my ears,

bringing a start, shudder, and frown.

⊙

Let me read aloud to you.

Anything you wish.

Anything to get

my mind-reading.

Like a hot bath.

Like that sudden ringing in my left ear.

Fleeting.

⊙

And, the day I saw the faun-headed woman beheaded,

I first saw her rip off her own smiling face.

Terrified as the blood spurted and the exposed muscles tore, I witnessed her dancing in the splatter like it was a lawn sprinkler in July’s middle.

⊙

We shall all hit a point of no return. A matter of when not what-if.

The Magister threw himself into the water willingly.

Seeking to fade away before Telgarius’ son.

To turn the wheel with intent, seeing his position no longer rested on the axle’s center, but now stretched across

a spoke.

Not to let the wheel turn him.

⊙

But, one man found that,

beneath the wheel

, there is a twirling reel to reel,

spinning cassette tape string

, a’strung between two spools turning.

The turning of the screw.

The taming of the shrew.

The typing pool of the monkey troop producing works enacted by Shakespearen troupes.

The evolution of concealed ovulation.

Wrestling into surrendered submission.

⊙

Phonemic smelting of a howl of words written.

Wordsmithing.

Locksmith and the kNight witch seeking the subliminal through the automatic.

Æ break mine own heart as much as I crack myself up.

The magic of shuffling cards before lightning a prepared candle.

What is this thread of outer consciousness that draws my sweet pout?

Poliphilio?

Marco polo?

What draws forth this expression my face makes for

only kNow-One?

⊙

What do you do with a strange bird that realizes itself to be a strange bird?

Call it The Ibis.

Decorously held in place by duct tape.

Gorilla’s glue. Chest beating and vine swinging.

Cheap giggles and swollen, turkey belly laughs.

A limbering

The shadows in the room grew.

Dipping the length of my leg into this newly found darkness,

like a penknife pushing it.

Stretching and testing.

And, I do not smile because I do not want to, despite feeling quite well and glad.

{in spite of bronchitis}

In my space, for the moment, there is simply, only No-One here to signal, unconsciously, with subconscious microexpressions.

My face enjoys

this fleeting freedom from observation.

My ears need not hear.

My eyes need not look.

My nostrils will choose when they wish to smell.

There is no thing I wish to taste or touch outside of my skin

right, exactly, now.

Just my own internal limbering.

So, I shift my body slowly to the rhythm generating; and,

feel my muscles begin to give.

I feel my inside/s.

It feels good and well warm/ed.

Hands raise above my head.

Breathing, not breathing.

(Resumption)

(Concession)

My heart keeps on beating.

And, my movements mirror

myself imagining me

as the serpent coiling ’round the Caduceus staff.

The toes of my dexterous foot, the finality of my snaking tail.

Inhale.

The fingers of my a gauche hand,

the small extremity of my fanged head.

Spiraling, in place.

My neck pops loose whilst

stalling in the suit of wands

and a decade of venom releases from muscle memories long forgotten.

I drain the venom out of my feet.

Exhale.

I raise the newly freed energy into my fangs.

I suddenly recall:

When playing a kazoo,

remember,

to hum;

don’t blow or you’ll

tear the wax paper.

The Undercutters: Chapter One- Why Effie lost her job.

Prologue

Introduction

“She was always such a sweet girl, but she just lost her shit,” bar patron 1 says, at 9:00 a.m., to the responding P.D. officer.

He continues, for the benefit of the record, “No, I wouldn’t say she was provoked; but, the old woman she was trying to seat was being a real bitch. They walked to three different tables; and, more and more people kept accumulating at the door; and, when that old biddy said ‘no’ to the third table she offered her, she just…”

“She just lost it!” interjects the diner at table 14.

“Yeah! Her face went all cartoony. Like in those old(e) Warner Bros. cartoons, when you realize the sheep is actually a well-dressed wolf in sheep’s clothing. Like, all pretty smiles and dimples until…,” bar patron two adds.

“Exactly like that. Then she just reared back and clocked that poor, elderly woman square in her jaw. I mean, she coulda easily been 70 years old.” says the indignant wife of afore mentioned diner at table 14.

“Right?! And, that lady just slugged her. It was fucked up!!” the thirteen year old kid to her right nods, grinning wildly.

“Justin!” the wife chastises to her oblivious son.

Justin continues, “Yeah, and that old lady dropped like a fly hitting a bug zapper. Zzzzppp!!!” he illustrates.

“Justin!!” Mom responds.

The P.D. officer asks the group-at-large, “Then what happened?”

The group-at-large goes silent.

Finally, Justin elaborates as the others nod in strangely silent agreement, “Everyone and everything went all silent for forever. Until. Until, the host lady started laughing all hysterically and real loud.”

“That’s right, Just,” says mom, patting his shoulder.

exchange

I say: you seem like the kind of guy who, if famous, would make his address public to encourage trespassers who could then be legally shot on site/sight.

He laughs: that could be my remake of The Most Dangerous Game.

I say: when you say “don’t tread on me,” I hear, “don’t tease me, I’m sensitive.”

I’m no bully.

Consider: Lordosis behavior and (bow)ties as the doses being titrated according to the response.

High heels were originally designed for men riding steeds. Heels hold stirrups, see. Push your heels down to get a proper seat in the saddle.

Today, the cost of the high heel is in its signal communicating desire. Done so with a bit of nonchalance.

It creates a slight spinal arch indicating receptivity.

Consider a (bow/neck) tie again.

You can get choked out easily, if the knot is grasped and twisted.

I cannot effectively run away, quickly, in heels.

Subliminal symbiotic signaling of an exchange.

Opening my dictionary

Charismatic people carry much telluric gravity.

Those working on their feet do not need to join a gym.

It’s that simple?!: he asks incredulously.

Neither of us are simple, but

we are both, rather, basic.: I reply

What is the difference between transcribing and transcryption?: he asks

I don’t know.: I say.

Huh, me neither.

⊙

Your eyes are hard and wild.: he tells me.

I know.: I tell him.

And it turns me on when you aptly identify an argument as inane.: I add

Blahblahblah: he giggles in response.

Filthlessly ought to be an adjective because it describes the subject ‘you’.: I say

It is a word.: he responds, opening my dictionary.

Palm up

Relishing when your smirk draws my snarl.

Proving to me, that you are second to none.

Give me your open palm, I will trace the wrinkles running.

Massaging knuckles a’loose.

Popping like logs a’flame,

the liquid spaces between bones and cartilage.

I am cleaning your hand’s battleground

from being strewn with tension’s carnage.

Dream of the leveled field

The meadow languishes.

Three pairs of your feet’s steps remain visible now,

even though you lied down, minutes ago.

Grass pressed into small etches slowly refilling themselves to full volume.

My eyes go loose and wide as

they stop seeing and start imagining the imprint your form will leave

when you arise.

Topiary impressionist piece.

Watching the moody weather make its precious, little changes.

False threats of pending precipitation.

The sky throwing a hissy fit for our benefit.

I finally sit down to watch it proper.

Strange grid-like lines buzz low intensity neon colors into a concaved and convexed axis.

Strange maths laboring, barely concealed by a cloudy cover.

I feel that sudden lucidity accompanying

the realization that I am dreaming.