Belted around robust hips, hangs a wreath of roses.
The dragon of strength coiled atop a bed of daisies, whilst blowing dandelion
As three lights shine down, the thief steals five swords; yet, plants two more in the ground. Grinning all the live long day.
He is getting away with something.
Beyond five modest hutts, a small plot of roses abides behind a plate of pitted fruits.
Afar, the Tower lies in repose, reversed. The sea sits skyward and lightning aries there-toward.
Yet, lightning originates from the ground, even when appearance suggests otherwise.
Regardless, it crumbles: skyward or earthward?
Depends on who is looking.
Pitted, stone fruits and mouths dripping in red serum.
The Divine sees you
under your comforter, Zacchæus.
S/he means to pavlar with you.
So weep with joy or fear. Even those blinds present a seeming evil eye
That s/he was gone to be guest with a wo/man that is a sinner.
And, Zacchæus panics; and Jesus wept
And, Z wishes for a tree. And, J says, “That was last time. You are a fool, forever falling.”
Z cries, Latin tears.
A supertramp knows the crime of the century was deconstructing the wall with no psychedelic flim flam.
The same way diving into water mirrors soaring upon wind.
Strange currency in common currents. Sublime manipulation of earthly gravity through oft forgot, simple material elements.
Understood by few; and, so mentioned with a wink and grin.
Mutters heard in the background as the stage falls apart and brings the house down,
Porcine squealer laughing.
The austerity of eating rice pudding instead of the apple tart.
Self-indulgence is self-pity lacking purpose.
What is mind? No matter.
What is matter? Never mind.
It is necessary to be pushy; but, fatal to seem so.
Losing your way into the strange spaces discovered.
Brambles and thorns.
The record spins, previously unplayed. It scratches so hard that you wonder if your diamond split.
Origami of viynl.
You thought you knew these songs; but they sting you: hard enough that tears of black wax fall from your ducts.
A hunchback beast prostrated before the barren tree. A white skeleton of a trunk. Threadbare yet beholden. Wishing to jump into the river.
You feel hungry.
You find yourself in a parking lot, on a rowboat. The sun beating. You have three choices:
1. The black asphalt that draws the sun into you. Nagual.
2. The white side path that reflects the sun onto you. Tonal.
3. Those yellow dividing lines, too thin in which to seek refuge; but, meant to hold you between. Intent.
In suspense, as a harp scales up; a piano scales down.
The thin woman told you, “I love the heat. I sit. I play my phone game. I work my word search book. I stand up and walk. Then, I do it all over.”
You run. You age. You sit. You listen.
I remember the purple grass.
The theory is fantasy of the practice; and, the
practice makes one wish themself asleep,
dreaming of the theory.
This notebook is upside down and backward.
It strikes strange that the lord largely seems to prefer sinners.
Forgiveness trumps the obsequious.
Interesting dominates normalcy.
The bargain over Job could only intrigue so long,
Until divinity starts a new game of mahjong.
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.
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
Way, over yonder
In the minor key, ain’t none
That can sing like me
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.
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.
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.
It is cold; so, she finds slips of sunlight peeking through almost drawn curtains.
They hit her face.
She closes her eyes and watches the images burned inside her lids
The sunlight is white; the residual image of the shape behind closed eyes is blue.
The well fills, deep and muddy.
So, they bury the dead above ground,
higher than the black water can reach.
A petite girl, with dark eyes and even darker hair, smiles.
Maat shan’t find those not kissed by the Sun;
And, those she cannot find, Osiris blesses.
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.”
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,
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?
Being under qualified whilst being overqualified.
Play dumb and see or gaslight.
Because no one will meet you at the space in between.
Stranded between two sonars.
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.
Even if you hate feeling this way and the customers seem so old
And, the coffee tastes cold.
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.