Category: Writing

page sleeping empty

This goose keeps skirting my grave.

Summoned from sleep to walk and survey the drowsy block.

The Sound’s waves lap slovenly against pebbled shore.

Everyone dreams around but me.

Chaotic states barely contained beneath membranes of skin and delta wave radiation transmissions that no one speaks of in lucidity.

Laying all around under sleep’s spell like corpses awaiting reanimation.

A coronal, plasmatic flare igniting my hair into flaming waves keeping me rendered awake.

I summit a mountain in double time.

The sky unfurls its vexillum of starscape.

Clouds parting in mine wake.

Swallow me whole and suck me away.

⊙

I dreamt a real crafty line, then dreamt I awoke, wrote it down, and went back to sleep proud and satisfied.

But, this recent awakening reveals the page sleeping empty and devoid beside me.

Silly

goose honking out shrill, laughing cries in the face of my surprise.

embedded trinity of coos.

⊙

The boy had tried to stone the crows, but they just caught the rocks with beaks.

“I shall train them to stone the child/wren back,” she thought.

“It would be instructive.”

But, then she remembered she had simply cribbed a line from someone and made a fantasy from it.

Anyways, the kids were in school right now.

Her crows were perched overhead, waiting for peanuts.

⊙⊙

Oh, so you need prompting now?: Æ asks me.

And, promptly: I deadpan.

Someone is playing for Team Sensitive today: Æ smiles.

I grin: Fecking captain. And, the fact that you love me like this pisses me off.

Æ counters: You’re more entertaining than when in your mystæ provocateur state.

Dickhead: I think, stinging from the blow.

Every time with you: Æ thinks, reading my mind, laughing.

You know, I refilled the coffee on Mr. Book of Answers‘ table today. He said, ‘Thank you for your sensitivity.’ I was charmed.

⊙⊙⊙

Hold my hands so they become held(,) dear.

Silversmiths of alchemists gatekeeping access to backrooms of bazaars thick with smoke.

A misty haze formed by fast talk and subtle exchanges.

Quicksilver traded for the mercurial.

Where those who do not wear thier darkness on thier sleeves abscond to let thier absence of light shine.

A speak easy of sly shadow souls and sacred fools that is only found by not looking.

Defy the beast, release.

perhaps

⊙ 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?

A4 conversion

The trick is to assume anything could happen.

The task is to make it seem as such.

Suspended by imagination, standing there, snarling,

beast-eyed and in a state.

Clears throat.

Twirls circles with one ankle.

Watching the mountains pitch darkness using shadows from a sinking sun

There a’stood at the Dungeness Spit where it never rains.

Next to the only lighthouse for miles.

The keeper never answers the knocks at his locked door.

And his light comes on later and later,

as the days enlengthen the periodicity of thier effulgence,

Like winter was a thief come to return what was taken.

And the noise of the Sound vibrates at 432 Hz.

A4 conversions and changes in the ferryman’s rates.

unbuttoning

“Have you ever met a bashful punk?” he asks me.

I tap the skin covering his sternum with my index finger.

“Do you alternate between two complimentary psychological archetypes to reconcile them?” I ask, alluding to his question without directly answering it.

He traces the double u spelled by the curves of the underside of my breasts.

“We are all dealing with the transient eternity of the arrow of time,” he speculates.

{space only has meaning for matter}

“Let me show you that you are the congruence of the meaningfulness of the universe?” I request.

“How?”

I begin undoing his buttons.

Concretising methodology.

Ha-hai-hyena

A bird singing.

“See and know,” I tell you on this lunar new year’s first day.

Obscurely erudite but available for the attentive.

The pulsing of the interior of thighs, trembling like

pleura of laughing hy-hy-hyenas’ howling lungs.

In ampersand out.

Coalesce; converge.

Release,

Stillness of coda.

not only above, but also below.

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

Parçigal disabuses Æ

~ When I see you tremble, it makes me shake. I will devour you with eyes.

⊙ Let me shower first?

~ No. I want to taste your day.

⊙ I’d describe it as a long, hard one. Consider yourself warned.

~ Don’t flatter yourself. As far as I can taste, you never even broke a sweat.

⊙ Such a little, smart ass.

~ A’yup, with a tarty mouth.

⊙ I like it when you front like you’re hard.

~ Well, that’s the thing about having lady parts, swollen and pert is as hard as it gets.

⊙ It does it for me.

~ Yeah, well, do it to yourself tonight. I wanna watch.

⊙ You seem tired.

~ A’yup. And, a bit uninspired.

⊙ Lazy.

~ You sure have been. Get to work, please.

so she howls.

A young girl used to eagerly await the mailman’s delivery, fighting with her younger sister about who gets to check the mailbox. It was a different time.

But, now, the mail comes all the time and you cannot hold the words like you could when they came on paper. Pealing of bells sound now to herald any incoming communique.

No one checks their box, these boxes check us.

And, chess becomes a frivolity of a checkers game.

She remembered sailboat life. Never being dry.

She remembered life landside where everyone seeks to be wetted in swimming pools, baths, and showers.

She recollects stories her grandmother told her of boxcar hobos making x’s with tree branches woven through the chain link fences of certain homes. And, of kissing soldiers working POW camps, through a chain link fence of a compound in rural Louisiana.

She recalls other things and her cheeks bloom scarlet.

Things recent and things well-aged; things imagined; things that may yet come.

In her solar plexus, a bloom of a blackhole’s burn consumes her inside to out.

Pert rosebuds puckering.

A presentation of a revelation. Where space may take back anything which it enables.

And, suddenly, she is no longer Narcissus, but Goldmund.

The Lover enlivened through Death.

And, sometimes it hurts, so she howls.

scratching itching papyrus

And, they came onto the lady saying, “Won’t you tell us of your darkness, pleas/e?!”

And, she grinned, ” What darkness? I can show your eyes No-Thing wherever there is no light. What could I glimpse of my darkness, anyhow? I simply embrace it.”

I’m a real kunst of a Kirkegaardian Kant.

They only came in the hopes of eating anguished eyes, anyhow.

What daunts you, motivates me.

What stalls you, puts the spurrs to my flanks.

What spurns you, ewe, encourages me whilst scaring ewes.

So, how could it not be hard for us to meet, one to the other, in the middle?

Where the splinter impales skin from leaden pencils frantically scratching

itching papyrus.

Rubber meeting ridden road,

Bug to windshield; the hood of a jacket grasped against hailing precipitation, frozen.

All in & either or.

And, of course, people who posture by peeking over paperback bios of punk rockers, yet cannot hum a single song, piss me off.

looked upon

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.

(found scrawlings on canary yellow)

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

becoming mysteries

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.

Tao of one footed standing

Dont push it.

I push it til my body clicks when I stretch.

Scraping bones of shoulder blades against muscle knots until dissolved.

Popping joints forward, backward until the clicking stops.

Somedays the clicking does not stop, so I stretch until my mind leaves me.

And, if nothing clicks inside, I simply revert to the Tao of standing on one foot.

Just try to multitask when stood upon the toes of one foot.

Bipedal locomotion is already ineffective and bizarre given our physiology and anatomy.

The ego fails to engage when you take postures to the extreme.

All you can do is not fall over.

But, here’s open secret x: people falling over is one of the highest forms of comedy.

So either you don’t fall and you get to forget yourself

Or else, you fall over because your ego distracts your attention,

in which case, you get to laugh at yourself.

Win

Win.

Parçigal wants attention from Æ

~The lunar new year approaches. We could celebrate at the temple.

⊙No, let’s celebrate under the night sky, just us.

~Lay down in my bed, please. Warm the sheets.

⊙The boy in ridiculously baggy pants, with straps hanging, at the grocery store, had BDSM tattooed on his fingers, but he couldn’t define the difference between a sadist and a masochist.

~Why do you care?

⊙Because, he looked like he was full of shit and needed to know it.

~We all are, dear. Most of us feed our guts everyday.

⊙Well, he should develop a kombucha habit.

~You should read a book.

⊙Listen to me read aloud?

~Why do you ask when you could just read aloud? You are hard to ignore.

⊙Because, it pleases me when you say it back to me. Also, consent is important.

~Dear lord, please read aloud. If you’re gonna yammer at me either way, then other people’s words become you better than your own, right now.

⊙Very good. Pluck a book, any book. I’ve got it nice and warm under the sheets, here.

(a)muse

Halt(er) me again, using the rapture of your words and gaze, to keep me still.

Thank you.

The words become illegible in the book’s bound spine.

The ink bleeds when you turn the page with a wet, bath-drawn, hand.

Knobbly knees peaking over the surface tension.

Your bemusement, unawares, amuses me.

A muse.

use.

where the players lick their wounds

I look over at the guy next to me.

“Last one, Kimber. Four fingers with a splash,” he says.

He turns to look at me.

“My nightcap. Whaddaya take to help you sleep?” he asks, patting his pocket.

“Two peanut butter sandwiches on white bread. Creamy,” I reply.

“Hugrhm?” is this noise he makes.

“Yeah, crunchy is more of an a.m. thing for me.”

“So you don’t wanna buy something?” he says, again patting his pocket, like I had missed his question’s point.

“I’ll buy your nightcap, there, if you can give a good answer to a dumb question,”

His pupils dilated as soon as he heard “I’ll buy.”

He swirls the spirits against three ice cubes, as if contemplating the offer.

As if he had something to lose.

“Okay,” he says after an impotent dramatic pause.

“What is the meaning of life?”

Without pause, he responds, “To find an answer to the question ‘what’s the meaning of life.’ “

“Put that one on my tab, Kimber,” I say.

~

I’m here to hear loud music.

I’m here to feel the second-hand smoke hurt my lungs.

I’m here for a headache.

I’m here to be alone in a crowd.

I’m here to eavesdrop.

People chasing highs; People stalking thighs.

Licking each other’s wounds.

I am here because it will help me to sleep.

Æ shows Parçigal some leeway.

~There it is! That trigger you press to release my pressure valve.

⊙You were quite tight.

~Then do it again. I could be looser.

⊙But, would you be worthwhile were you any looser.

~You mean I was worthwhile when strung up and fretted?

⊙(Silence).

~Oh dear god, are you ever the dirty dog!

⊙Rrrrufff.

~Shut up. You know ruffing is one of the few things I’m better than you at doing.

⊙And , I’d take even that away from you if I could.

~(My eyes go hard) I know.

Parsiçal giggles to Æ

“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.

A tantra of shared breath

Open secret x for meditation: we cannot depend on our lovers to prove to us that we are not broken because actually, in some way, we all are. Wounded, anyway.

Perhaps such a small and silly thing could be one of the biggest tasks we face on this marble: to see and touch the world around us and to try to not harm what we see and touch.

(This vision came to me after sleeping. I am a bit uncomfortable sharing it; thus, I choose share it freely).

Penetration through breath work. We penetrate the whole universe with our being when we simply inhale and then exhale. We penetrate each and everybody else that was, is, and will ever be, as we breathe.

What does it mean to breathe for one another?

Suite in Curiosity

A tantra of connection for our breath. Sitting on the ground. Our legs crossed Indian-style but around each other. A pillow beneath me to hold me a bit over your legs. So, we can wrap better. My cunt pressed to your hound. We feel the heat of each other radiate back into ourselves. We just try to breath with each other. Match our breath so we can inhale together.

And then exhale. In simultaneous time.

Rhythm building.

And, we try to hold our gaze into the other’s eyes. It will feel awkward at first. Forced effort to sit and just stare. Too much eye contact. Giggles involuntarily escaping.

How long do we sit here?

Long enough to fully feel the discomfort of our active choice to inaction.

Intimacy doubled initially until time passes and our discomfort becomes a pulse. An entrancing rhythm.

~

I say: I imagine in this moment, that I can see so deeply into you, as I gaze, that I am able see you, beloved beast, way back.

Before you were ever wounded.

Innocent, clean, unafraid, sacred.

As I do, I imagine you looking in to me and seeing me the same way.

Entranced. We could easily make love or fuck with ferocity from this place.

Enter me with air. Undulate against me.

There are as many ways to touch

As there are many ways to love.

Put on Hildegard von Bingen ‘Canticles of Ecstasy’.

I will quicken in front of you. Fill up with energy. I will magnetize your charge.

~

I put a hand over your mouth to take control of your sweet breath. To try out something new. Letting you know when you are to breath and when you should not.

Your eyes glaze. You look a bit dizzy.

Let us share one breath.

Now, cover my mouth and uncover it again.

Feel how you adapt to my heart rate? You begin to know when I need air. You start feeling my shortness of breath within yourself. You sync to my breath as you control my breathing.

As you watch my body live before you.

You feel like you breath for me.

Or, perhaps, I am breathing for both of us.

I want our lungs to breath together.

Feel your breath as it is.

While I tell you this, I’d like you to take a slow, long inhalation.

Deep in and out.

Imagine the air you draw in as ocean blue. It moves like cold, clean water into you. Without holding it in, lean into me as you prepare to exhale.

Feel that nanosecond before you complete your inhalation, but have not quite begun to exhale.

The flux of air pressure shifting with your muscles.

Open your mouth.

Kiss my lips, open mouth.

Now, exhale slowly out of your mouth into my mouth.

Fully empty your lungs of air into my mouth. I will suck your exhalation into my lungs.

As you breathe life into me, feel the exhalation pull your discomfort and pain and antsy from you.

The air feels hot in your lungs now.

Humid and warm.

Imagine it flowing out of you like a hot orange lava flow.

Clear your lungs and send your uncorrected energy into me.

I let a bit of fresh oxygen enter as I breath you in. Inhaling deeply, but not at an unnaturally slow pace. My body will convert your exhaustion into usable parts. I will take in your breathy tangles as hot lava and in that moment between inhale becoming exhale, I drive the unwelcome energy into the void of my being where it is tempered into green smoke, cool like mint. You will wait the three and four seconds and then I will return your breath to you.

And, it clears your chest of tightness. Careful to pull a bit of new air in so we do not fully deplete this breath we share. I feel dizzy. Light. Tranced.

I feel dizzy. Light. Tranced.

I put my palm over your heart to support you. Holding you up and pushing you against your heart. Back and forth. Push. Hold.

You swing away and then back towards me to the rhythm of our breath.

In this way, seated, we somehow walk right along our ledge together. Foundation for future magical enchantment. Quiet. And completely loud.

Ritual of consecration of our feast of famine.