Return & Advise

An unlaunched missive is not an armed missile; just a simple epistle.

Your old haunts are not your new hangouts.

Return and advise.

Time fra(c)ks on; and, the wrinkles around mine eyes grow deep, but show the decades of a consistent smile.

What burned smolders.

What intimidated may now, well, produce reminiscent giggles.

Junior Kimbrough watches

There remains a difference.

Talking and listening.

Deny the former and indulge the latter.

~

And, Junior Kimbrough watches your back when you say,

“Most things haven’t worked out.”

Especially when the house is too big and filled with ghosts whom you have never known,

as well as those to whom you have no connection.

How much house does one need?

To what end?

A stair lift chair for old age?

A downstairs room, separated from the kitchen, previously called the breakfast nook,

Now your bedroom

;

Because,

Stairs…

cold read

And, the Cold Reader’s weapon is asking the question,

“What do you want?’

Four words contained; yet, this question can reckon a wo/man to knees.

Your slight frame personified by pale skin and high cheek bones.

And, æ says hi to your unassuming hyena.

Boldness un-presuming.

Let me show you how to pick the carrion clean

And suck the marrow from the bones.

For all men must die.

But, that which is dead cannot die.

Let us waste another year.

Ellips of the Ellipsis

What’s the difference between a circle and an oval?

A foci and a center.

A constant and a repeated succession.

A viscous form of arguement in which the conclusion is virtually assumed to prove the premise, and then the premise made to prove the conclusion.

Arguement in Circle.

A circle and a sphere is a matter of an extra dimension leading axis to become.

Finding the riteful seal

A girl writes her younger sister.

She cannot locate her stamps.

“I just used them,” she exclaims in frustration.

“Where was the last place you remember seeing them?” he replies.

“In the oddest of places I placed them; because, how could I ever forget keeping them in such a strange place.”

He fingers through bizarre boxes she keeps, oddly bound journals she’s never opened before him.

“They are not here. But, there are words contained here. Esoteric words that are somehow more understandable than the sentences containing them. I feel as though I do not know you.”

She stops and looks upon him with exasperation.

“Do you not leave notes or stories to your future self?! Where do you leave bread crumbs, Hansel? Put my croutons back where you found them. I am not looking for their trail now.”

Sparrow and the ghost

She felt small, so it took a couple of seconds to make the easter decorations stand erect.

Straw chicks with plastic beaks and ridiculous fluffy, bunny ears.

And, she’d never celebrated easter, but these were gifts given,

unbidden.

Who would deny cheeky celebrations gifted?

Perhaps, the dead of night was the most (in)opportune time to consider such serious frivolity; but, if not now then when?

She is both sparrow and the ghost, and the equinox just transpired.

Robins were already rooting about the fresh blooms of her daffodils.

How could these birds be so fat after winter when she felt so famished?

If the ghost of the natural world rises, why should sleeplessness trouble her?

Belle gets into vinyl

I never felt as good as when I was sleeping.

And, Judy wrote a song about her dream of horses.

The best looking girls are staying inside.

Saying the most when they don’t talk.

And, the gossip is the best looking boys have been taken as catastrophe waiters.

Yes, you should really eat anything.

Swallow.

Even if you hate feeling this way and the customers seem so old

And, the coffee tastes cold.

I dreamt of you

You were younger. Shoulder length, dirty blonde hair with a strawberry hint. Fine and thin without being too thin. Becoming in a way that would become only on you.

You lived on an entire floor of a brownstone walk-up. It was modest in appearance and make, despite its opulence in size.
A woolly sheep dog lies on the staircase leading to your floor. He is yours. The ground beneath is a terra cotta clay. Beneath his sleeping form, urine stains the carpet of the stairs. You note this as you let me in.
“I have not cleaned it yet. I took my straw rake to the puddle on the clay and swept it towards the floor drain. I photographed the patterns made.”
You usher me upstairs.
Three rooms are devoted to books. Two of the rooms contain bookcases, floor to ceiling and organized. The third room contains piles. Books stacked dischordantly, floor to ceiling.
You are proud.
You tell me you have three women in your life. All Spanish. España. You prefer one of the three. Though she is not present, your mention conjures her to my mind’s eye. She is much taller than you, with legs that “go all the way up.” Petite breasts and modest but flared hips.
She knows your books. That is why she is your favorite.
Her eyes are suspicious and cold; yet, I intuit this suits you very well.
I feel a painful bittersweet joy. I become self-conscious about my lack of tallness.
You take me to your balcony, perched directly over a high steep cliff being beaten mercilessly by waves.

Back, when we all lived in the forest

Specks of light energized into existence out of the boundless emptiness of complete darkness: to be born, love, and die.

A spiral created by dragons swallowing their own tails.

|

A spiral of snakes biting their own tails.

Darkness birthed from the prevalence of utter light: born of sight, growing into blindness, and forgetfulness.

Become before it.

Let me tell you what will be before it becomes.

A lady of the canyon sans the initiatory beads.

Her ridiculous enthusiasm replaces the rose missing from her mouth.

You and your frightened silence, thinking I don’t understand.

Oh, other people’s parties.

And, the variation between being perfectly in key to wildly outside,

Well, it only becomes me.

More.

Wolf Moon Coming

Plow follows plough, sparks flying off steel striking asphalt. And, the eaves of roofs encoat themselves; burrowing beneath so much white that they bloom, blending seamlessly into the snow clouds of these days.

Salt and footprints on sidewalk. Heavy Snow Moon blood spills out white; and, even the strong trees lean out at strange angles.

20th century punk.

A 20 year old tells me they are into metal.

I get excited; I listen to their modern faves.

They don’t sound like what I call metal. Too many synths, too much sing-song emoting.

Too much professional, production value.

I realize I am old.

I rattle off my favorite metal bands: categories include precision, stoner, speed, and prog metal.

They know none; but, they nod along politely.

I switch.

“Do you like punk?”

The usual one comes up: aka Sex Pistols.

But, both of us are born American (proud or otherwise). I love Brit punk, but…

(I get exhausted with American’s thinking they need to get into Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols to like punk.

(Hell, the very album name is too bloatedly British-speak for the American punk scene)

Talk about appropriating a cultural identity. We ain’t got no Queen. Find what resonates with your experience. That said…great album.)

So, I rattle off some names.

We find a common starting place: Black Flag.

I ask if they know X.

They say, “There are a few bands called X.”

I say, “Yeah, but there is only one X; they are out of LA; and, their lead vocalist, Exene Cervenka is a badass bitch, just as obnoxious as that dick, John Joseph Lydon.”

“What’s the album title to look up?”

“The vinyl to buy is Los Angeles. The title is simply where they are. No commas needed.”

“What’s the song to look up?”

“First track: Your Phone’s Off The Hook, But You’re Not.”

“There’s a comma in that song title.”

“Yeah, but it’s just a song out of others contained in the album.”

“It’s about a landline being off the base?!”

“You mean a phone being off the receiver?”

“Yeah, I get the joke of “off the hook,” just seems dated.”

“The song came out in 1980.”

“Yeah, it’s dated, like I said.”

“And, Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols came out in 1977.”

And, I know I am old. But, enjoy being young enough to understand the importance of referring to a single individual as “they”, when they ask it of me.

Passing fancy

He hides his drink as well as his foundation masks ancient acne scars;

both masquerades given away when he blushes with girlish excitement at her boyish ferocity.

A passing fancy.

“They nearly named me Fanny,” she says.

His cheeks turn scarlet.

She returns it with a lipful of smile.

The Undercutters launch into yet another cover. This time it is Waterloo Sunset; and, it’s fine.

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