He rolled over, having fallen fully asleep.
My cape slipping away.
I roll over and drape myself across his back.
The refrigerator starts humming.
I tap out a rhythm with my right foot’s big toe.
The tap comes easily so I’m not dreaming.
Hyper lucidity,
yet, the bed remains empty.
~
She smiles. She shakes her head.
She admits. She misses him.
The night moved slowly through steely rain tapping out a steady hum drum accompanied by a rattling of the pipes.
I lying amongst these ghosts of all the souls no longer embodied.
Bidden recumbent repose poised before a magma flow.
Then, the night wrapped around and slung rain against panes,
slapping blinds behind the other, open windows.
And the scent of you entered.
Full frontal and central.
Doll, you’ve got it confused.
You are completely vulnerable when you forget to be in the-Moment.
You merely feel vulnerable when you find the-Moment and discover you had forgotten it.
You were wandering through the Meadow of What-If.
The Marshes of Why-I-Oughta.
Your home is in Right-Now and you never leave.
You keep forgetting.
Mountains do not need to be seen to largely loom.
A pond does not need to exist continually.
Seasonal droughts come before
the flooding of Springtime
with its garish blooms and hissyfit storms.
Cycles of forgetting to remember to not forget,
abiding by celestial currents among the degrees of inclination about the axis.
As pokes retch,
a spoke stretches,
hissing,
from the rim’s circumference to the center axle.
Therein may we all meet.
The day the dome of the sky fell, the sky had been pure and light blue.
Then it shattered, falling like bits of flaky white about a shaken snow globe.
Slowly sliding down, the cocoon broke as glass.
And though, the visual trauma, momentarily, made everyone’s impatience subside,
the Universe cared not, in spite of everyone, everywhere thinking It did.
“You seem eerily confident since the event,” he said, nine days after.
“The sky has fallen. My insecurity shattered. Confidence is all that remains,” she replies.
⊙ What are we doing tonight?
~ I don’t know. Laundry?
⊙ Dress up while doing it?
~ What, like it’s Sunday School?
⊙ Not exactly.
~ Who’s dressing up? Me? We?
⊙ …
~ Sigh. That’s what I assumed. Do I have to redo my makeup in this hypothetical?
⊙ No. You should wash off what is painted on now.
~ Wildling berserker is a favorite get-up of mine.
⊙ Because there is no get-up required.
~ Perhaps.
⊙ The look does become you.
~ It overcomes me. But, what shall we do about your get-up?
Rip the mussels from their shells while I husk corn and shell peas.
A garlic clove, crushed with a knife’s handle, teases out its aroma.
The inoculation of a spinning dervish
who seeks the antipodal position of the divine.
Diabolical twirling in this ongoing energetic exchange between universe and organism.
En pointe is En garde.
The evokation of my exhalation diffuses and diffracts into atmosphere.
The invokation of my inhalation converges energy from
not only above, but also below.
The cyclone of the Void rampages through my celiac plexus.
The center of the eye of the storm is so motionless.
It crystallizes, dynamicizes, galvanizes,
before radiating into fibers of the nerves strewn along my
coronal plane;
when, just in the nick of time,
the cordon of my spine sucks
the ambient and I find
a respite in equilibrium.
The word Apologetics springs to mind.
A tangent unfurling
Lo siento
I feel it; but, I am not sorry
The weather changed five time in six hours.
Even though it was today it became yesterday and tomorrow, a few times.
Sun, clouds, rain, sun, rain.
Observed through frames of picture window panes.
He had slept on the left side of the bed, next to the radiator; because, she does not get cold.
Every night for the past week, while waiting for sleep, she imagined crawling out of her own lying body,
like pulling the weight of herself out of a manhole.
He wondered if she finally looked upon her own sleeping face.
I felt your shape and your breathing,
heartbeat sneaking in.
Breathe in the scent of my sternum, right there in the valley between.
I smell for you.
All written in canary yellow.
Masks melted onto faces.
Fuzzy beasts.
“Bespoke never beholden. You look good on me.”
“Then put me on, I want to be worn by you.”
Crickets singing
Where does your Pendulum currently swing?
Through what strange currents does it cut?
Can you feel it slicing and whipping the air about your crown,
whilst I watch?
Nearly knighting you, incising each shoulder, ever so slightly,
In ruddy, slightly bloody, rushing reds.
Let me decypher the etches inscribed into your collarbones.
I become the Mystery when I hold the Mysteries in outstretched hands for others to see,
speaking invocations and evocations in wolf howls, silently.
Notice the bizzarchitecture built into streets, hidden hexes of energetic vortexes corralling prancing ponies in immediacy.
Magick of the municipality.
Three goes into ninety three, thirty one times, evenly.
Thirty one is to thirteen as both these numbers are unto three,
in terms of divisibility.
Thirty one is thirteen looking into its own reflection.
As we are both prostrated on knees before the pendulous swing,
suck upon the fingers three which I present unto thee.
“You have told me nothing that Æ do not already know,” Æ tells me, sternly.
I grin, with closed lips, then
I say, “Oh howl. Is that what we were doing? Let me have another go at it.”
I do panto like I am a junkyard bitch barking and straining her neck against an invisible chain tethered to an imaginary spike.
I smile broadly, with both decks of teeth bared.
I suddenly spit out, “I once lit a candle that burned for two days straight despite there being not enough wax left.”
“Ostensibly,” he shrugs.
I cock my head sideways like a curious animal.
“Be quiet. When you try so hard, you always get in your own way,” Æ mutters.
“Oh howl. I thought that was the point of what we were doing. To let me stumble against the obstacle of myself,” I giggle snort, a bit bratty.
“Are you as confident as you seem,” Æ asks, seriously.
I howl in laughter.
“I did not know I appeared confident, Æ. I’m confident that life will render me unconfident often. If I am properly challenging myself.”
“How do you think you appear?” Æ asks me.
I reply, “Great question. I’m confident that I have no idea how I seem. Because, I am inside me, and cannot ever perceive myself. But, I’m the one that gets to experience myself as I am, regardless of how I appear. It used to be ‘I think therefore I am.”
“But, now?” Æ obliges me.
“Now, it’s, I’m seen therefore I am. It’s a real narcissistic shift.”
“So, then, what do you know?” Æ asks.
“All I know is that everytime I ‘think,’ I do not know.”
“And, when you don’t think?”
“I know I am.”
“How are you then?”
“I’m super, thanks for asking,” I giggle snort.
Æ rolls both eyes.
I smirk.
“Hey! I just made up this joke for you, Æ! Do you know it?”
“Tell me.”
“What’s the difference between feral, spitting of saliva and enunciated speaking?”
“…..”
“An audience!”
Æ smiles coyly. “Æ do like it when you spit your seemingly inane nonsense into the hole between my lips.”
My eyes go hard.
The snow came overnight and stripped all the colors from your sight.
Even the televisions lost technicolor.
It was all like it was before.
And everyone else rediscovered outside
while we explored inside,
below, then above, the old quilt.
Hands rubbing flesh like flicking sparks from flint.
Thawing out tongues pressed against icy appendages.
Hot breath pronouncing as smoke, in short
vaporized bursts.
Dragon breath lighting dormant pearls contained in shallow
hooded caverns.
Petals under the bottom retaing their flush.
I could remove some of your dreadful readiness; but, to do so would be to denigrate the events within your human condition: Æ says to no-one, in particular.
Speeding along another dissolution of ego through hard knocks followed by unseen but well-heard giggles in the darkness.
Æ said you wanted kindly unkindness: I whisper to no-one, in particular.
Spurning me forward, as I spurn you.
You drew the five of swords, sweet sap of sorrel.
Æ said to tell you that death is a mercy you do not deserve.
How dare you?!
I dared to accept this personally æons ago, dear. Thusly is how I dare.
Tears spring from his eyes.
I begin seeing bleeding horizons, bloody in the sinuous, poet trauma symptomatic of a new birth.
It feels like a backyard, handmade, waterslide, whereupon you sweetly play, dripping;
And given you remain unconcerned about getting grass burns on knees from all the slipping and sliding,
you may have a real devil of a divine time.
You may be rewound, house proud, town mouse.
Let your prise punish you;
you mashed my berserker button.
Teutonic fury arising between my lower limbs.
Never try to take a medal from Muttley the Magnificent.
S/he has many sharp teeth.
The entheogen that is your your proclivity, inclines me.
That would be my preference, thank you, kindly.
My acting aloof and disinterested becomes my inclination at times.
An odyssey on this odd sea.
Honing of my symbiotic synergy in our exchange.
You want me to howl for you?
Then restrain and discipline me before
I do so unto you.
The struggle that makes your breath short.
The venom that your karanika painstakingly kills you with in dreams, because nothing dies that is not already dead.
So what is the purpose, here in the taking of this meta-sacrament?
To see my shadow, my doppelgänger, and
let Æ out to play.
Another pair of entities at the Pit of the Pylon,
alchemizing the ephemeral into wave currents which conjure the corporeal.
Fifty two envelopes each with a key.
But, only two unlock the door that
you keep trying to break open.
A gamble you take with ecstatic desperation.
A gamble you hate loving to make.
Whose rapture is whom’s ecstasy?
Wrapped and rapt.
Have you ever wondered who’s the slave and who’s the master?
And remember this.
Keep your boots clean.
Bite a thumbnail from a pretty petty pouting mouth,
Remembering a horrible dream wherein you made an exchange with the devil,
only to remember it on waking,
and be so terrified at what you promised that
You pray to god that
the devil be made to make good on the words,
knowing full well
god and the devil may not care what you want.
So, let me interfere with your energy extraneously and
show you yourself as
you know yourself naught.
Come Thoth, it is your Seshat.
It is Æ calling us to aid in calming the howls of the
inane pharaohs of this æon.
I hear your verbose silence
spewing strange, novel phonemes.
I grin, sly, at the inaudible sound of your speech.
I came to do the ritual
of stretching the cordon
to measure the dimensions and
align the axis of the temple’s adyton.
Such work makes your Mistress of the Library ravenous.
I am carnivorous.
Press your open mouth to mine
; and, with your flapping tongue,
feed me the meat of your words.
Why do you whisper ‘thank you’ everytime you yawn?: Æ asks.
Because, for me, such a breath is a true ethereal blessing. Portentous of the ability to enter the sleeping, dreaming, state.: I respond.
The strangest, subliminal inhalation i know, akin to the exorcism of an involuntary, sneezing exhalation.
Magick-ally mundane.
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
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 dreamt of Blue House, with its strangely angulared architectural
In the tiny library, we saw sharp, slanted writing on every inch of the walls.
Covered in sigils unreadable, sentences ineffable,
Interjections conjuncted with exclamations.
An indifferent, yet, energetic-ally aggressive atmosphere
devoid of hostility.
From there, last night,
I wrote to you :
Will you halt me with your mouth
and show me your mind?
I wonder as
a coquettish muscle spasms in my left foot.
Musculature malefactors.
I love the almost-pain of it.
Malediction, subliminally decried, to inoculate.
What is the difference between chaos
and the constant state of affairs?
Is there one?
Or, does that inclination follow the declination of the earth’s disposition?
⊙
A punk band called No Vigil
battling
A punk band called No Sigil.
⊙
I dreamt I held back the masses of an audience
, for you,
by making them wait on me
while I was waiting on you,
according to some malfeasant line of time.
⊙
Æ asks me: shall we play your favorite game?
What is the difference?
Yes, pleas.
What is the difference
between hidden and secret?
between esoteric and occult?
A cabaline cabal, prancing, at Sette’s auction.
It made you giggle when
my response to your heady sentence was:
Oh my, I do like your phrase “operative formulæ.” How are you spelling it?
Does it make a difference?
⊙
Your forehead wrinkles show a perpetual proclivity for a quizzical, lopsided expression of interested curiosity.
You made yourself the background and
predicate to my subject;
and, in doing so,
you taught me to make others the subject against my background,
the positive space to my negative space,
And, to invert.
⊙
Where the web traps, there does To-Be
become
the difference between to deceive and duplicity.
A copy of the copy of a copy.
What is the difference between revealed and reveiled?
A ‘I’.
“The thraldom of imagined existence.”
Old Guard to new guard,
the Blackguard exchange.
The timing of a skipping phonograph’s needle.
The sound of a thick, braided, leather belt
str-
-etch-
-ing
across a gateful of extravagance.
A’poised atop a capstone.
Simple balance.
WrittenCasey 