Rider and Driver

I reminded myself of my freedom upon awakening this morning.

Howl easy it is to say that word without meaningful intent.

Free from what?: you may ask.

I don’t know. Myself? Selective desires? What I wanted for other people?

My love of this particular previous mode of life.

I can keep my love and desire anywhere.

Choice and temperance decides if I wilt.

I choose to keep some with you because I can.

<>

Hansel and Gretel breadcrumbed the path of the trail taken.

The coach benched the less adept players.

They were told that they were lucky to make the team at all.

Tuned in ghosts may be friendly, right Casper?

My vocabulary grows.

<>

Giggle. Howl fun it is to smile at what others assumed would wreck you.

Howl I laugh at myself until ’til I cry.

Howl strange it makes me feel efficacious.

Everyone can name a thing that or a person who

they want.

Can they evidence a pursuit of the want?

How long can their arms carry wood during the winter.

How much sun can their skin take from the summer?

Silly beast, did you think an invoice for work done would be presented?

Flatter your-being a little more. But,

do not flatter your-self.

<>

The junko flits about the porch upon which I sit.

I doubt s/he has a plan or a concern for my prescence.

S/he is

hungry enough. To naught,

care to hide.

Stellars’ Jays are more self-aware. They won’t come over.

They just look on from the apposite rooftop.

Both can fly.

I know you can run, but can you lift off?

Why taxi on a runway

when there are

highways and byways?

A hitchhiker and a driver.

There is romance to it,

if you survive.

<>

I know you are a bullet. Don’t make me dodge you.

Shoot to kill, huh.

Catch and release?

I am not endangered so don’t bother.

Shoot to wound?

Crueler and more unusual.

Taxi your own dermis first because your trophies are only relevant to you.

Are you a trophy in anybody else’s eyes?

They will clean you regularly and prominently display you.

They may continue to amass more trophies.

Devaluation of a trophy holder not a trophy.

To Nick a Horse’s Tail? Parçigal writes

I it is,

writing to you as A’ licentious Alice, a chalice, from AL by way of LA origin-ally, with houndstooth donned:

It is the sense of loving the moment. It is remembering the sensation of meta/physical love and then remembering the sensation of how it feels to lose it. That ache. That sense of how many times will they wreck me?. How many times will I play the Fool?

Again and again.

Why lose the Fool of yourself? If I killed the Fool inside to be hip, where did the real me go? With whom do you share your inner fool? Can guarding it be anything authentic?

In this mp3 and streaming world, a mix CD burned,

a cassette tape made,

breaks my heart right open. Is that why we have one?

This is not sadness; it is a necessary devouring of self.

A Happy Death.

My existential orientation continuously regenerates as at the point of origin, and I can be painfully patient; but,

does your silence actually speak: you are only useful until used?

Bemused at the thought. At you. By you.

And, a comma can change the entire meaning of a sentence: I say.

I know your way.

I knew before you showed me.

You play semantics and fancy it is a game?

<>

Splayed pieces parsed in preparation of a preheating oven.

The intimacy of this is but the sense of mind behind it.

I understood that years ago. I learnt it in a dream.

Tonight, I feel my patience hotly boil, as though I must make it into impatience simply to show you my elasticity.

You say: I’ve been here before.

So? I’ve been here forever: I reply,

Curtly but with a curtsey.

Here, where the desire to conduct currents raises meta/physical energy in the nerve endings concealed under my skin.

What a waste to not make use of it.

I would waste that energy on you alone.

Waste it in the face of

your silence.

I will howl until you howl back, to punish you.

Does that spook you,

you ghost of the man of May?

Giggle-snarl.

I espied your inconsistency immediately since taking my flight of departure.

Curious.

It was my mistake. I should not have allowed you to let me leave. I thought I was being kind, but I was only being polite. Stay. That’s what I really meant to say or do this time.

I abide still. I stoke fires. I test the limit.

I care for you. That is all. I can unconditionally hold you(,) dear.

My love is not tethered to needing love.

My devotion is my loyalty to my beloved. You endeared yourself to me.

I desire you. Now you must suffer the cost of your own, odd charms.

It is no matter of ‘should’ you, but rather, ‘could’ you

tell me true?

If you could, I hold you(,) dear.

If you could not, I hold you(,) dear.

<>

There is heavy magic in your air and I am magnetized.

Some integral things reduce to simple vibrations, to sounds, to sounds like bays, being transmitted through our air.

I wrote all these words first

in longhand to show you how inane I can be.

How frighteningly unafraid

you could be,

should you so choose, ewe.

Or, perhaps, your hands are tied.

Perhaps you have no choice but to be so.

I learn the record of your timeframes

still.

Deliciously diabolical it seems: both your pleasure and your desperation.

Does it make you forget which side of the road on which you ought to be driving?

Were you just checking out your mojo?

Taking me for a ride in your fast car?

There. Am I impressed?

Hum.

Good question.

Can you answer this: if I told you that your heart belongs to me now, would you hold your head up high in the air?

Could you even if you wanted?

Could you even say if you didn’t?

The difference between ‘can’ and ‘may.’

Simon says he went birdwatching but only saw his own feet.

Not many birds to be seen in that scene?

Just grounded, flightless birds, you adorable dodo.

<>

I saw a porcupine ripping out its own quills,

one by one by one,

by one at a time.

Onlookers horrified at the sight of so much blood.

The porcupine stabs them while they are stunned into stillness by the reverie-stupor of their surprise.

Slaying ampersand slain.

I see your look of discomfort at this friction.

<>

There was a slight drizzle of rain

as I laid myself

down to sleep early this morning.

I imagined how lovely it would be to

put my hand about your pelvic flair.

The jut of your hipbone.

Cup it like an anchor to

hold me fast

in what dreams may come.

[☆]

The night sky was so poorly lit, that I could see

moths flying away from it.

Fleeing the lack of light is not the same as seeking a light.

I raise my lantern for you tonight.

If it is lit

it is done so through and not by me.

But, for you is for whom I raise it.

A beckoning through a beacon.

Here is your

sea shore.

Fall, like a wave, upon me.

Surrender your summer-self and embrace the autumnal ewe, you.

Across from Howell Way

The song’s tempo shifts and

the outfit slides easily into

a softer sound.

Impeccably nuanced for a bar band.

<>

R. used to own the joint; but he sold it.

Allegedly.

He would neither confirm nor deny this.

He heard him directly asked twice, separately, and all he would give up is:

I work here.

He returns nightly.

He emerges from the back of house with a

fresh bus rag. He flaps it,

like a matador,

before folding it into a small square.

He does not even give up

a smile.

He magically produces a broom and dust pan to

sweep the carpet.

They don’t make ’em like that anymore?

Hardest working man in show business.

<>

The smell of cologne breaks through, suddenly.

I breathe it in deep. Try to see the source.

That was a fun song: the singer says, tuning his guitar.

He and the fellow on keys banter between songs. Long enough to be ready for the next song. Not too long.

The bass and drums do not laugh along or smile.

The funky bassist.

There is a reason he is front and center.

He has no mic. He does not solo.

Nothing is the only part he overplayed.

He is perfectly on point. Tight.

Anchoring.

A self-indulgent guitar solo becomes necessary at his command.

The guitarist announces the set break.

We now pause for this brief station identification: I think.

Guitar and keys wander out the back door

to the smoker haven.

Bass bums around with the crowd.

The perfectly understated drummer (rarest of the rare) escapes my awareness.

I look up at the screen above me and am informed carpet is being liquidated.

I stop looking at the screen.

The bassist is the first to return to his position.

Standing in his spot. Waiting.

The drummer appears moments later. Seated at his station.

Tick, tick.

The bassist sits down on an amp and starts playing along with the song on the jukebox.

/gotta have that funk/

You got it: I think.

He plucks a quick harmonic, wrapping up, as the guitar and keys return to the stage.

Stands back up, he takes his place between the two.

Guitar and the fellow on keys banter. Long enough to be ready for the next song. A bit closer to too long this time.

Tuning strings, the singer says: all right. We are gonna play the same set for you all over again…you guys look like you’re having a good enough time that you won’t even notice.

Hell, half of ’em probably don’t realize that you are a cover band: I think.

Deep cuts selected.

Covers of covers.

An undercover, cover band.

<>

Clearing empties and wiping away the sticky of slightly, sloshed beer spills,

R. stops by my table.

He calls me by first and last name.

When did I tell you that information, sly, observant one?

Parçigal Passionately Possessed

My deer, stag,

I it is.

It is I binding you in this ecstatic existence, suspended between

the Star and the Satellite.

The sun and the moon; yet, it is you they call Janus.

I am the feminine, arched gate-way granting the descent of your

spirit into matter anew.

I do not redeem, I conduct currents.

The sea of PARChVAL is the conjunction of /K/ and /C/.

I am the sea, KC, the reason

a /z/ becomes /c/

Parzival becomes Parçigal.

Congruence creates /Ch/

Why do you think I remember my name is also /Alice/, at least sometimes?

KC becomes Ch(eth) and conjuncts to /Alice/ through a confluence of circumstances causing me to recollect that I am

A ChAlice of Ecstasy. A grail.

GRAL, deer Parzival.

moon and sun

known to gods and, simultaneously, known to k/NO/w-One.

Socratic circles unaware of one another.

Let us ignore the voyeurs gawking at love’s blazon painted on our lips

We exhibit authenticity in current, capacity, and conduction without being simple exhibitionists.

They tricked you into believing you are the monster and me a prize if pure.

Howl silly they were.

I want your masculine beauty, that prettiness you cannot see,

to come

to love

the feral beast I conceal in my hotly, howling heart.

I show her to few outside the eyes of ewe.

Come

sit beside me and show me ewers.

Let me call you a pretty thing, fellow.

This gal knows objectification as well as the absence of it. All gals do.

It becomes a bore, sweet sorrel.

They taught you the trick of objectifying

Let us trade places, like swapping clothes.

You may become the direct object of the verb I enact.

I will do the work because I want to see if it makes you squirm.

To see if it makes me squirm to do.

The embarrassment of being kindly admired.

The sensation of feeling yourself being eaten by the eyes of another.

Empty yourself so that I can see you better.

So, I can better show you yourself as my eyes see you.

My mirror may reflect the unexpected.

Do not spook, unless you must,

when you discover you are the Dove and I am the female goat.

Secret she-satyr.

Why do I think we should go on?

Because what else is there to do?

As far as I can tell, ain’t nothing else happening at all.

Shall we find something which makes us belly-laugh?

Care to cackle along with me?

Cast upon me your strange glances, my deer-man.

My irises drink them like wine intoxicating my soul.

Straddle two shores of consciousness:

with one foot in every-day

and one in ecstasy.

In a balanced imbalance.

Our wabisabi is our Tao.

Tell them that they may call us by the handles

Priapus & Pearl.

Those dummies don’t know that my mantle is reversible.

They only see the dark side, the light side; and they leap to the conclusion

it must be so below, on the underside that is hidden from view,

as it is above.

It is red where the two sides meet.

The red turns green when I see you;

although you cannot see it,

you can feel it as a sudden drop in ambient temperature.

Being bespoke, not beholden.

Not needing, choosing.

Bound in the unbinding of wearing each other’s invisible maverick’s branding.

They will know us by

howl freely

we move as ourselves.

Our brand is authenticity having no mark burned into the skin.

A silence screaming: simply see and know.

Be still for me and feel the essence of softness?

Make your hardness melt into delicious vulnerability?

I will call you /Sweet Thing/ in such moments, derelict deer.

And, I will wonder at those instants when your eyes cannot meet mine.

I will call them up to me without words.

Your eyes will go wide, then soften to

see me look upon you with such hard eyes.

This is how

my femininity penetrates you.

All this I can do while

taking care

to not stomp the little flowers growing underfoot.

These are the open secrets of our Tao.

Inner sanctum unseen by the sleepwalkers.

Methodology provoking zealous jealousy in awoken ones.

They see us and cannot remember

if love differs from devotion.

I can show you how to move mountains.

It is as simple as letting yourself hold my hand.

I hold the world for ransom when I take your face between my palms.

Unspoken psalms.

What comes next

be-comes

unspeakable.

Just like Tao cannot be apprehended through words

(only hinted at)

It can only be obtained

through direct experience.

This is Numberwang?

This is Numberwang?

(Kindly let me know if my math does not tally below. I tried to check and recheck it, but…)

<◇>

Q: When was 120 minutes ago from now?

A: It was two hours ago.

<◇>

When was one hundred and sixty four billion (164,000,000,000) minutes ago?

Hum, huh?

~

My illiteracy with numbers occurs at a certain threshold.

Numerical literacy*? Not my strong suit. So, I play with numbers, with what I can imagine.

For example, I can imagine a triangle, a square, a pentagram, a hexagon, a septagon, an octagon. But, I cannot imagine, or see in my mind’s eye what a 25 sided polygon would look like. I would have to try to draw it.

There is a 10,000 sided polygon, called a myriagon, according to geometry.

I will take their word for it because I cannot imagine being able to imagine what that would actually like.

~

I am not monied. The difference between one million dollars and one billion dollars? Well, sure, ‘orders of magnitude’, but I only understand that in the abstracted sense. The practical difference between such huge numbers is not immediately obvious to me. But, the news, scientific research, and governments, regularly inundate us with such large numbers.

~

Do a thought experiment with me? I wanna know:

Q1. How far could the millions of dollars, comprising a billion dollars, go?

Q2. If I had one hundred and sixty four billion dollars (as I hear someone in America truly does) and I gave away one million dollars per day, how many days before I am broke? Let’s pretend I keep my $164,000,000,000.00 in cash in a safe. That means my money is not making more money via interest, returns, dividends.

If I have one billion dollars in cash, let’s imagine it’s kept in one million dollar bills. I would have one thousand of these million dollar bills.

I could give one of the $1,000,000 bills everyday for 1,000 days before running out of money.

If there are 365 days a year, 1,000 days is about 2.75 years.

The difference between a million and a billion, practically speaking?

A1. You can give away $1,000,000.00 everyday for almost three years before exhausting $1,000,000,000.00

So, how much more than 1 billion dollars is 164 billion dollars, practically speaking?

Well, if it takes 1,000 days, of giving away 1 million dollars each day, to get rid of a billion dollars;

It would take 164 times longer to give away $164,000,000,000.00 than it would take to give away $1,000,000,000.00

1,000 x 164 = 164,000 days

164,000 days = 449 years and a few months.

If I had $164,000,000,000 ($164 billion), I could give away $1,000,000 ($1 million) everyday for 449 years.?

Fuck.

Now that I see it this way it only raises more, honest questions from an ignorant me.

How much money do people need?

And why? To what end and what do they intend?

______________

*My own numerical illiteracy was introduced to me by a slim, charming book called Innumeracy by John Allen Paulos which I found tucked away in the statistician’s, my father, bookcase.

The idea is wittily conveyed in the sixth chapter of the second section of Douglas R. Hofstader’s book Meta Magical Themas: Questing for the Essence of Mind and Pattern.

The chapter is called Number Numbness.

Both are written for non-math-savvy folks and both pieces manage to entertain with humor.

Tangential Orienteering

I walk to the new gig. First-day-of-school-style outfit donned. Old, fuzzy threads, nonetheless.

I espy a blanch in a branch of the shrub, with wooden threads of splintered

timber;

And, my mind initiates the below (tangent umpteenth).


That timbre of timidity from the ghost mice scurrying under my feet,

running like a wide river at a moderate water pressure.

They can give your toes an itch or a twitch.


Quick as you please, I leap to the limb.

Back to the blanched branch which is

splaying, shredding, snapping,

no longer bending.

Critical load bearing exceeded.

The shrub shrugs

it off like a crab with a too-tight shell.


I was warned it was awful hot

to walk to that new spot.

Do I want a ride there in your car? Thank you, kindly,

but, nah.

I forget how to breathe in those things.

I cannot forget how to breathe when walking

in the heat.

I arrive to do the job and their A/C is on the fritz.

The windows bring the sun in full frontal until night falls.

Hotter than the hot outside,

front and back of house have been sweating it out longer than me.

Spots of,

the sheen of,

sweat in my hairline,

on my neck’s nape,

curling strands; and signaling:

simpatico.


sections within floor charts ; table numbers ; two and four tops ; spare chairs ; polished silver.

A dining room

laid out.

Down.

She told me: I make circles and keep up everything with my eyes. You can circle the floor without hitting a wall and having to turn around abruptly.

No dead ends, eh?

I remember walking these circles with open eyes: I think.

I smile.

Talking in my Sleep

I fell

asleep too early only to awaken at three a.m., then, five thirty a.m.

Dreaming in lines of prose

For the first time in a while.

/a kitchen hood fan/

I shoot awake and word-play potentialities for the phrase.

Three contexts I conjure before kicking the endeavor to

Fall

asleep again.

N plays ball with the deceased Jessie-pup.

A Border Collie with no one to herd but a slobber-covered tennis ball.

“She doesn’t know when to quit. She gives herself heat stroke. Don’t let her eyes get too red. She needs a summer shave. I did not know that she was still running.”

A nod acknowledges.

Then I remember, the gal knows how to throw the ball with her own mouth.

Huh.

A sharp knocking kicks me conscious.

Hello?

Just hammers from next door’s reconstruction.

Good morning.

Coffee. Chug.

Walk the block.

My body awoke, but the coffee still ain’t caught what passes for my mind up.

I sleepwalk.