A sound not a bay.

I am the subtle magnetic force trying to kindly shift

your aged space and the immediacy of your moments.

Or, is that you?

Pulls of the polarized enliven me.

Maybe I am your current, optimal conditions,

an ideal, unidyll ether enabling materialization.

I see from the lonely vacuum without feeling alone.

Electric light and natural radiance.

A backlit screen,

The sun striking the pages of written text in a newly opened book.

Lidar and black holes howling in polite algorithmic rhythm.

The Oxford comma not being used within

sentences always running-on.

A’stood between two pillars of trees

with bark gnarled from time,

coarse like hands that can carry wood and graphite,

my writing flows

forward and backward.

And, simply saying, “hush” can be a come and turn-on to the fretted strings.

I see success is your proof; and, it

arouses need to draw your reaction.

Your attention.

So when you ask: Do you see?

I respond: I know.

Because I want to hear

You ask me: you know what, exactly?

i know my eyes want to watch your eyes: I reply with sheepishly calculated vulnerability.

I can see you enter a hypothetical room and

stand still.

Hell knows what I’d be doing, but

I know

I would stop doing it at the sight of your site.

To read you, without words,

your reaction. The response received from your eyes, without smiles.

Feeling as a fool tossing a coin with the Fates.

I ran with you in dreams last night: I say.

And, I understood the difference between a cagey connoisseur and a common collector: I think.

A coattailer or a partner in crime.

You tell me: your hair is a kudzu trail twisting down a terrace in tresses of winding locks.

These things are integral, like a well-timed laugh,

yet, they reduce to simple vibrations and shudders.

I live by a body of water

that is a sound oft confused for a bay.

But, my bays sound

like a whispered suggestion:

Come and bathe with me, Archimedes.

Liquid Breezes

The curls of my hair,

a kelp forest waving in the currents

of the jet streams and trade winds.

I deal in oxygen as well as molecules of water.

I may suspend myself in the watery depths,

adjusting my buoyancy.

I may crest your foaming waves to reach the sky,

propelled by the energy of

the momentum of your surface tension,

; and, catch the breeze with my fins

which, repurposed, are now little wings.

Physicsical Moaning

I smile: I am pleased you like the work, but not particularly interested in why.

You liked how it felt.

Instead, tell me about the last dream you had while sleeping?

Did you like how it made you feel?

I dreamt a record store called All ‘N Analog. It was no analogue.

And,

What if it turned out that Paul Revere was just a Boy who cried Wolf?

Let’s incorporate.

A stem [becomes]

steAm.
Repetition of action is

not repeating oneself;

though, care must be taken, of course, so you

don’t repeat yourself;

but, sometimes I love it when

you repeat yourself

(or ask me questions, the answers to which you believe you already know.)

Self-awareness of ignorance can nearly

overcome it.
Just don’t over-commit.

You will, still, scratch that itching nose with a finger, whether you are aware you do so,

or not.

You skate on a bead of water produced from the ice you melted as the blade of your skate skirted over it.

You have not cut the ice.

Boiling point is dependent upon the local atmospheric pressure, sweet thing.

Are you at an elevation of simple sea level?

The triple point of water.

A bathtub producing water, ice, and steAm from its faucet head.

All states

existing simultaneously; and, at the same time,

the ultraviolet exposure at my atmospheric level, fries, while I watched the sun rise

from my spectacular, secularly sacred space.

Labouring in Unkind Kindness.

A day I play like Cool Hand Luke.

If you labo(u)r, you probably do not have Labor Day off.

You are probably extra busy with your labor, in fact,

because of all those non-physical labourers who do have the day off.

No judgement, just observation derived from experience as someone who has been on both sides.

This is pure assumption: I can tell if you have ever worked on your feet, by how you interact with me when I am running a waiting list for the restaurant.

Open secret x: I am the hostess. I want you happy.

Open secret x’: you will not piss me off nor will I say anything unkind.

You know why?

Because, nothing pisses cranky people off more than someone who will not take your anger bait.

Killing you with kindness quite literally, you silly folks.

This is where the Tao of Cool Hand Luke comes into play.

You trying to put me down on the ground?

I just keeping getting back up with a giggle and a smile.

I have been through far worse.

I can do it until you are uncomfortable.

Every now and then, I can even make you smile.

Score.

I appear daft. Too stupid to realize I am being insulted.

I appear sugary sweet, but I speak in a calm, deep, resonant voice.

Just so you get a grip on the power of my gravity.

Unkindly kind.

to Port Townsend

They make parking garages into boats.

The cars below do not feel the apparent-wind like us walk-ons do.

A pair passes by me. I hear: “How did those stickers get put on there?”

Orcas, while rarely seen, do swim here in the Sound.

A family passes by me.

“How did those stickers get put on there?” I hear again.

{~}

On the bench to my right, a fellow in a cowboy hat is photographed by a slight and pixie-like gal.

She has a camera. A proper, right aperature. She does not repurpose her cell phone for the task. Perhaps it speaks to the value she places upon her subject and the tools required to properly achieve her artistic desired ends.

On the other side of the water is a Townsend of a port. It is filled with salty sea dogs of the best kind. One of the last bastions in the world of expertise and experience re: wooden sailboats.

It was built in a decidedly Victorian style during the late 1800’s. Elaborate stone buildings that would seem more at home in the UK.

It maintains four independent bookstores, all on the main [sic. high] street.

Always a positive sign. Yet, one that I seldom see.

The song of a pied piper.

The voice of reluctant troubadour.

An outburst from a seagull sounded like a car alarm.

Investments were made here with the intent to create a massive, international shipping port. This place was supposed to be what Seattle became, but the railroads did not lay track here as anticipated. They routed through Seattle.

A hazy cover of clouds lingers. There are immense mountains so close by, yet abiding unseen.

I pass two places that I recall having seen in dreams. Deja v/u/iew.

And, it smells like the Gulf of Mexico does. Destin, AL, just next to the Florida’s panhandle.

Salt. Seaweed. It reeks of things always being wet and never drying out.

It is a town of artisans, artifacts, and craftsmen. As it was explained to me: It is a sailor’s paradise because there are only 24 days of “good” sailing weather here.

I consider that type of sailor. Yup, they are the same sea dogs that still build their vessel from wood and not fiberglass.

There are rigger shops every other block. Schooners, sloops, cutters, ketches: the number of sails and the number of masts varies, but they all require a great deal of properly positioned and tightened rope. It becomes a specialty, like navigational skill.

It sings of waves falling down. It hints at waters ceaselessly lapping rocky shores like relentless thoughts and worries carving canyons in the contents of your confidence.

Seagull shit stained rocks and buildings made of stone. Barnacle blooms come into view on the hulls and the buoys during this time of low tide.

I feel the demands of a restless mind clicking out thought and notion like an antique stock ticker. I cipher telegrams regarding the health of your economy.

Waveform and flows rising and ebbing. Coming like crimson tides in the waters of words flooding my mind’s. Aye.

A hum escapes and vibrates from my throat. A quirk. A noise I make unconsciously when roaming in my mind.

Have you ever surprised yourself by hearing your own voice?

I speak mostly through unspoken scrawls. My loudest voice comes from silence when speech is expected. Fishermen hooking attention.

The vocal manifestation of the underlying punctuation is realized through the intervals.

Rests between notes.

How many beats per minute in the measures of the sentences comprising your composition? Moving as do canvas and a pallete knife conjure acrylics into patterns.

All boats must be houseboats when afloat. They are the sustainable sanctums stopping you from dropping into the briney depths.

While it may keep you from taking the plunge immediately, it does grant you access to the deeper and deeper waters, where both stillness and churning are ever present.

Path-carving the sloshing surface.

There are seagulls cackling out “ha-ha-ha” from all around. It sounds much like the blahyadablah of the “hi. how are ya’s,” or like all adults to Charlie Brown.

There are no speed boats here.

No yachts.

Fast and flashy find no quarter.

How am I?

The shopkeep asks.

Good question.

I know that I am, but how it is that I am, I do not know.

Do you know how you are?

I make. I do, that much I also know to be true.

I smile and say “Oh you know, I’m covering the spread.”

I stop by the independent record shop.

They sell vinyl with a smattering of cassette tapes and other obsolete formats.

They do not sell CD’s. Great curation.

I got the cassettes below for four dollars U.S.

After asking the owner what the price is, I am informed the MD is a mix made years ago by an employee, to be played in the shop. It was given to me for free. The shopkeeper was highly amused at my interest in it.

I mention that seeing three albums by Mott the Hoople made my day.

The shop owner says: started my day with them.

He reaches under the counter and produces the album sleeve for The Hoople.

A sea of faces in hair.

Evidenced.

A child eyeballs me on the ferry ride home. Sliding closer and closer to me.

I say: I’m Casey.

S/he says: I didn’t ask you.

I say: I just thought I’d tell you.

Macy then tells me many things very quickly.

S/he worries deeply about the dangers of sharks when s/he takes the ferry, for instance.

S/he stops speaking briefly and stares at me and says: I think my eyelashes are like yours. We have the same eyelashes.