Fifteen hours

Within the last few days, the days began lasting fifteen hours.

During this season.

From 6:30 to 9:30, the sun is so loud; all day, banging on drums in the garage.

And, perhaps, whomever said howling is the lowest form of magic was not doing it dexterously.

“If I have a daughter I will name her Persephone,” she told me.

“I’ll call her Effie,” I grin, referring to an inside joke.

“I hoped that’s what you would say.”

“What if it’s a boy?”

“I don’t choose.”

Sisters sharing hushed giggles.

jawed off

Come sweet sleep and make your home my blessing.

A warmth wraps me sometimes.

Some poor animal jawed off its own mandible.

Probably doped up on bourbon and honky tonkin’.

Stealin’ gems and looking to claim the chastity of girls unfortunately named “Chastity.”

A couple of sharp incisors then nothing for inches until the rattling molars.

A sun bleached, white galleon.

I tug on each of mine canine teeth, to make sure they don’t rattle so. At least not yet. Sometimes I dream they crumble like chalk, leaving this iron enriched taste of saliva and powder accompanied by a metallic smell that is painful to breath because you know what it means.

The roots feel strong.

And, this strange shyness overcomes where I become bashful reading every word I write.

At times

The rain finally fell; I missed it.

An unpacked wound left agape, to breathe in awe, and slowly heal.

A little thing festered, so I had them cut it out.

And, sometimes, I like him enough to fear he could wreck me by letting me see myself as he sees me.

A foundation. A dream of a house of cards.

The foundation will fall before you and you will then become a dream to someone else.

A sweet one and a night-mare.

Bed bugs and freshly laundered sheets.

The keel remains, but no one is at the rudder.

Those secret chiefs are here. Sometimes, I think they come to me for a laugh. They know I know; they know you know it’s going to be okay.

You are welcome, but don’t tease; because, the words are over flowing. Bubble and bursting.

Cassandra’s Cavern closes, that spot above the fourth rib.

Cicatriz of a wildling.

Whispers in my ears.

Strings of random words.

Panoramas streaming alien multitudes of locales.

I hold still.

I try to listen and see.

It fleets and my mind yells, “Stop suffering.”

“I didn’t think I was,” my non-mind replies.

I dream of a day spent by a lighthouse. Watching seals. We return home.

“Good. Your skin still takes the sun,” he says, brushing my cheekbone with his finger.

My eyes go hard into his. I feel strange. I wonder are you some sort of vampire, pale one? It’s okay. I prefer a vamp to a peacock.

Suspense and suspension; the endearment of a man in suspenders.

A giggle hushed by louder laughter in the dark issuing forth from a little one with the lecherous eye.

We recently swapped places as easily as we used to swap clothes.

A white cotton bralette with no underwire.

A wood chipper left running, unattended.

A burger joint that grinds its own meat.

The sharpening of my axe.

Split nails and feet like cloven hooves. Shesatyr running.

And, my fingers begin to invent strange signals through the bending and overlap of digits as a dog pushes its snout into the corner, trying to become invisible. I watch while I act like I don’t notice.

A divine spark. The yetzirah. Multiple bodies operating on multiple planes.

Want births intent. Breaking of want produces freedom of will. The ability to intend.

I lost myself at sea a few days ago; let me know if you spot me.

I’ve a hole in my side and there’s a hole in the world where all the people used to go.

There’s a hole in Sam Stone’s arm and there’s an Angel who still flies from Montgomery.

Click-click-click goes the capped end of my Bic, against my thumbnail.

A familiar territory. A region you know well enough by cartography. Declension and longitude; elevation and latitude.

You must act without awareness at times.

ewe made toast

Sometimes, I read you backwards.

Starting with the final paragraph and stalking you back,

coda to prelude.

Because, I’m less interested in how you end up and more interested in

how you found yourself at your present conclusion.

I want to, again, layer on clothes so that I may take my time undressing in front of you.

I want to watch your eyes.

I will sing like the birds enjoying spring outside my open, bedroom window.

And, my face flushes and turns so scarlet that I could swear I am fevered.

I am not, but I swear under my breath, anyways.

I see all those slant rhymes you presume pass most by.

The repeated use of an odd word.

A woman giggles while noting she had to look it up.

I giggle, because the same woman said the same thing a year ago. The last time you spoke the Word.

I recall you as easily as ad jingles and pop songs.

It becomes embarrassing, but I’m not ashamed despite not being proud.

It smells like when ewe made toast.

And the scent memory, turns me into an overflowing ewer.

Catalyzing another metaphysical catharsis.

Hot tears spill. Oil slicks slipping down geological formations of cheekbones.

I look sad but I don’t feel as such.

I feel rapt.

I simply feel.

Make your libations and lower your vessel that I may fill it, vassal.

Silenc3 Refomul8ted

The govenor of the state of New York was recently asked to relay declarative sentences regarding the data analysis his scientific experts yielded unto him.

He laughs.

“You think I don’t give you a straight answer, you should talk to these statisticians. They never give you a direct statement.”

I laugh.

I message the statistician I know all too well.

Telling him the statements.

He responds, “There is a possibility he’s right.”

~

Today, I reread myself from twelve days ago.

She stands and windmills her arms in circles sixty times.

She bends her neck and it cracks.

“There it is,” she says, thinking, ‘Fuck. Taco Bell would be good.’

I guess I was exercising/exorcising.

<giggle, blush>

~

Today, I reach out to aforementioned statistician, writing,

~I have a shuffled deck of seventy eight cards, I draw one at random. I replace it into the deck and reshuffle. I draw a card at random. What is the likelihood that I draw the same card?

⊙One in seventy-eight. The probability is completely dependent on the second card matching the first.

~What is the likelihood that I drew a different card each time?

⊙P(no match) = 1 – P(match). 77/78.

So, she scribbled out the math in crude ways. Slowly, by hand. As she had as a child.

<never turning in a math test before the buzzer sounded>

Well, fuck the ten of swords, she giggles.

~

I reread myself from April 26

Some facts are hard; some truths are soft.

Make your own Kierkegaardian leap. I didn’t bring a parachute for me, let alone you. But, would it be okay if I fell next to you?

Phædo

Swan Song

Pædrus

And, No-One wilt sculpt you a wrinkled, time weathered, mountain from a molehill better than Æ.

And the reason, P.

~

Yesterday I asked my sister for her good Word and wrote the following:

The –thorpe was octo-. Eight little houses in the hamlet.

A cluster.

A community built from playing with a bit of hash- -tag

you’re it.

The difference between mitigation and litigation.

~

Right, exactly, now, the sun insists through snapped shut blinds.

Where the chord connects on the à gauche, median, and dexter sides through little loops knotted about each slat

~

I see my handwriting spell it out for me:

The heyoka becomes a narcissist’s tulpa.

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.

while this shepherd slept.

All night, I sawed the log. Twelve hours of non-lucid dreams.

I open my front door and a little, mangey, wiry grey Australian shepherd pretty much falls inside my flat. S/he had been curled up as close to my door as possible, sheltering from some storm. Waking up when the door opens, the dog crawls inside, jumps up on my futon, shows me its belly, and gives me those eyes: Please. I’m not going back out there.

Then, I woke up.

I guess it’s the pup’s turn to soujurn in my dreamland heaven, the Landgrave I build and to which I retire.

Must be my turn to tend the fields.

I wonder how long the poor fellow covered the herd while this shepherd slept.