the lady sets flame

The nearly-old woman had rowed across an entire ocean.

Sick of water and the hyena laughs of seagulls’ cries, she found herself dreadfully lonely. A certain kind of lovely ennui.

Upon finally reaching a shore, she steps onto land.

Snatching up and opening her waterproof satchel, she snaps off her final dry match from the little book.

Striking the head, the lady sets the flame to the first tree she sees.

The limbs swallow it and ignite.

The fire brigade arrives, as hoped, her bidden welcome wagon heeding its combusted summons.

They were upset.

“You seem upset. It’s just a trick I learned from the matchstick boys,” she shrugs.

Kids soon arrive to witness the hullabaloo. The fragrance of the fire turns to a stinking reek, as they throw garbage to feed the pyre. Glass, aluminum, become explosives, followed by bombs of pubescent giggling.

“Why are you here?” the exasperated chief inquires.

“Because you have land here.”

“What?”

“Because the ocean thrust me here.”

“Why were you on a rowboat in the ocean to begin with?!”

“I was exiled from another strip of land for starting fires. Shall I grab a bucket of water? I’ve experienced putting them out, too. Water? Wood? I can carry six of one and a half dozen of the other.”

“Matchstick boys teach you that, too?” asks the chief.

“No. Priapus protects them against prosecution. They never developed a taste for accountability.”

“And, you did?”

“Yes, chief. I’m an honest fire bug,” she says.

She reaches into the camisole grasping her breasts and slides out a demure rectangle. Opening her copper cigarette case, she removes one and waggles the rest at the chief.

“Want one? They make your skin look younger and your hair shine brighter.”

The chief shakes his head.

She delicately clasps the slight case closed and taps the head of the smoke twice against shut copper. Packing it.

“Suit yourself,” she says slipping the case away, against her heart.

She gingerly leans into the burning bush which is all that remains of the smouldering tree.

She inhales, putting fire to leaf, lighting her penultimate square.

walking in

Walking in, he says,

“What’s the cost of admission? For me and plus one. We won’t take up much space and can find our own place to sleep.”

“It’s hard to dream just anywhere,” the plus one adds.

“And, the statistics confirm that the data speaks, saying, ‘This is all but a dream.’ “

“Unmerrily, merrily, unmerrily. We are merely sleep walking through a mild nightmare,”

walking further in, she says.

smoother than the current

Ending up with grandmother’s wedding china because I was the only one unashamed to use and chip it.

Gobbled down and choking on a lack of appetite..

Only one of us made it out; I still pay penance for it. An empath loves the narcissist, everytime. One ideates, conceives, while the other perceives.

Scour my skin to the bone. I am asking for it. I will disabuse you of yourself; just don’t abuse the Looking-Glass.

A sovereign holds the realm when this body alchemicalises into the temple’s adytum. Walls forged of a steely, alloy blend.

Iron and carbon. Chromium. Not allowing pliability of constitution. Intolerance. You ought to don a mask should you choose to galvanize.

It is cool to the touch and smoother than the current state of your aging flesh. Calipygian ass shining and scattering the light.

What is the difference between reflection and refraction?

Ball bearing production won a second world war. The sustenance of victory gardens yielded sustainable consumption.

A stake in envisioning the desired outcome.

“Feed yourself.”

“Let them bake cake.”

“All hail the queen bitch.”

untapped tenterhooks

“”

She watched his exposed pocketwatch glitch, continually clicking on 1:13.

“Your timepiece has a hiccup,” she says.

“No. That hitch in its get along preserves a piece of time specifically.”

“Oh Specific Standard Time?” she teases.

He rolls his eyes.

That frozen timezone where this intensity of scent memory seduces all into succumbing. Cologne in an elevator. Columbarium. The sweet soap the waitress who touches your shoulder wears. The aroma of my shampoo lingering on your throw pillows.

“You shed, you know?” he says.

“I have known for a while.”

“I found one of your hairs a month after you left.”

“So? Where, what was done with it, and what did you care?”

He simply makes eye contact again and stares.

Returning home, with untapped tenterhooks and tarp in her pack, she bivouacked on the sidewalk of the High Street. Too tired to care about pitching shelter after being so carelessly untiring.

“”

little seeds gum

Just a moment to bemoan feeling alone.

Sirens swarm.

Rain patters like swiftly boiling water, in spite of the shining sun. The Morning Star beating his wife again.

As quick as it comes, it will go.

Either the sun.

Or the rain.

But, the mathematical solution to 0! equals one. Seemingly impossible. Impossibly erudite. Contemplative pornography.

Like eating a raspberry just to feel its little seeds gum up the curvature of molars.

so, I took a wrong turn

She has nothing to say during the day time.

Saving it for night time’s shade.

Knowing next time, she’ll sow these seeds into the desperate nightmares that will become your dreams.

Cowards in the cul de sacs of tax payer paved streets.

I wilt tread over these as much as I please. Let your puppy bark, your motion sensor lights trip. I am a stroller not a prowler.

And, as much as I am uninvited, you are not entitled.

You are a dead end at which I make my u-turn.

the Fool forever falls

I remember you. Yeah, you. You stood next to the burning acacia bush. Hard to forget.

Whilst the girl stood before the podium, clutching her tome, a man held her tresses with scissors poised. A confusing ancient image.

Nowhere else is where she’d rather be. Snip the dead ends and make the sheep shorn.

Ewe.

Ewer.

Hopelessly old to be so young.

And, in dreams did I endlessly empty the carafe into the stone basin. Naked and milky white liquid ever-flowing. My eyes trained upon a single stone upon the ground. A star, a wizard wearing a vizard.

Two pillars of sycamores framing me.

I heard your caw.

I answered with mine own trill. Basil tinted and chai scented.

The folk of Zakopane take for granted the mountain air surrounding. Snug in chalets insulated against the Kasprowy Wierch. While opening the parcel, I confuse feeling wretched with the sensation of a heart being wratched. And, all at the sight of the Slovak postmark.

Because it makes me recall the not exactly cream cheese they call qvark. White cheese paired with fruit and a terrace. A simple ripe raspberry atop to boot.

Prattle and pitter patter.

Refreshed at being carefree sans carelessness.

You are comfortable, he says.

No. You just find me cozy.

And, they threw out all the words I firmly etched with his letterpress.

Into the depths, off cliffs of Tatras,

The Fool forever falls.

Subterranean seattle alien nonsense blues

Looking like an ever-loving swine in sunglasses. Peacocking. Tail feathers all a’fan. Such a pretty fellow, just ask him.

I over hear a man dropping something in the parking lot. Cursing loudly.

Ten minutes later, he yells out at a neighbor’s squawking parrot, “shut up, you fucking freak.” Pandemic conditions do not become him.

~

“I’m just saying,” she not only, but also, says, “I’ve watched a criminal amount of cute animal videos this week. Like, if I was on the stand and used it as an alibi, it would go like this:

“Like, see your honor, my tablet history clearly shows I was four hours into binging six hours of watching cute cat videos when this crime was perpetrated.”

“Let the record reflect the witness is not guilty of this crime, but will be charged with something because of the egregious waste of time and countless brain cells. While I cannot formally find her in contempt, let the record show, this court sure holds her in contempt.”

“Like, I would not get a new job if these records of time spent watching were included in background checks.”

~

I hear the old man in the overhead apartment, creaking support beams in his pacing above me, while aggressively complaining at his phone. “Who wants to play a game,” I think. “What’s the creepiest pet name you can imagine?”

There is a cat named Mister Daddy. I know because I was in the house when it was naughty as I heard its owner crying, “No, Mister Daddy! No. That’s a bad Mister Daddy.” And, you know what? Mister Daddy, being a cat and all, just looked at this sweet girl like, “Ahh. I don’t care. Get outta my face.”

“Sounds like a real soul-shattering experience.”

“I lost sleep for a week.”

the confidence of

“It’s returning to the stranger of your previous self passing you by on roller skates.”

“Everyone commits unconscious fraud, but crimes against your own humanity remain largely unenforceable.”

“Don’t be silly, I just wanted to hear you say you think I’m pretty.”

“You walk with the confidence of a much taller woman.”

Because she hadn’t had a moment to breathe. No bit of space to call her own, even if she did have the back of a Camel pack, a portal of the porthole in the plaster, and sometimes a view.

Sometimes a forest, sometimes a cave; sometimes a sound.

A fault line. A tyranny of averages.

And, what I thought was an ever accumulating posse of ghosts was just me coming to notice them. For, they had been there the whole time. Like when I came to understand when someone begins a sentence with “I hate to mention it”, most of the time, they mean to say “I love having a chance to bring this up.”

When I do come back it will surely be as a book, or a bit of English in a pool game, or the illegible scrawlings penned by someone in ecstasy. And, I know God and I are playing in this moment.

“I shudder everytime I hear the record’s scratch.”

“I like it.”

“It sounds like breaking. Rumination.”

“Sounds like creation.”

“Oh, shut up, Shiva. Shakti the eff up.”

Falling into a swoon of kisses before saying Dummy,” and slapping him from his reverie.

By the mouths of old crows.

Lucid dreaming comes easy. Lucid living becomes tougher. I see fantastic stories through windows. I only watch real briefings to enjoy the silent signers providing translations for the deaf. I like the chorus more than the talking bobbleheads.

I recall the slight mass of you. The feel of thin, increasingly inelastic, skin covering the meat of your body. Neckline, nape, and collarbone. Connect the dots; then, come and paint me by numbers. Sign your name with a dripping brush’s tip.

These past days, I have been thumping animal hide stretched over wood. Striking a drum head, softly. Purchased in a foreign market of an alien continent where cattle roam the markets. Haggled over; Hand made; Had at a bargain. Despite being single, that day, I wore a fake wedding ring to increase the currency of my social capital. It’s all in the details innit?

And, the majority of talismans donned subliminally indicate”don’t tread on me.” A woman stranger in a man’s strange land. When in Rome, signal in Roman with protective signs.

I carried the drum on my back for weeks before sailing with it across the ocean. Talking drums teach the impact of saying things by leaving them unsaid. Cowardly lions, heartless tin men, and straw fellows appearing solid until picked apart as disappointing carrion by the mouths of old crows, before finally being blown away and scattered into bits by the slightest breeze.

Dorothy was just trying to find her way home. Wherever that place is. On her way, she sees Shiva stars exploding and feral Nataraja dancing.

“You’ve been needle-pointing with your yarn, Ariadne. You must keep moving.”

“No. I must first knit some socks for your cold feet, dummy. Otherwise, you will certainly slow me down.”

The Goddess and Godhead grew weary of playing the same, old god games together.

So, they exploded. Blew themselves apart into a billion scattered jigsaw puzzle pieces. Awaiting once promised reassembly. Now, we all seek out one another in our presently incarnated iterations. Looking for another missing piece with whom I may hold hands. Spending a spell of time choosing to walk each other home to ourselves, until each of us arrives before a door we remember forgetting.

Curvaceous calculus.

Because she has the time, she performs the reconfiguring of the dogan. She razes, and ritely begins rebuilding her mental palace of labyrinths and mazes. The masses suddenly grow massless and restless around her, collectively unflexing the muscles of their prowess.

Even running the kitchen hood fan becomes risky; but, only because the old man upstairs is pent up and pissy. It’s become hard for him, continually hearing the business of people living. But, he creaks about the boards at a later and later hour, hoping for an email telling him, “I hear you.”

Implicating the certainty of my missing the hearing of his late night pantry raids.

A silent fireside chat.

And, even with computer processing, the avalanche of paperwork rolled over the system. A coattailing bug being currently debugged.

Some people disappeared; others went silent but seeable; and then there were those mouths which could not stop talking.

And, she wrote the same word so many times over the years, that she could no longer remember if the ‘i’ came before the ‘e’ or if the case is exceptional.

“We must stop wasting time,” he said, for the innumerable time.

“Then stop saying the same thing and get down to it. Watch the shape of the s curves of my shifting body, stretching. Do you see how the area under my curves remains the same in the end?”

“Yes.”

“You see how some iterations of my curve are more dynamic than others?”

“Very much.”

“Good. As regards this ardent analogy, ultimately, some will get it and some won’t.”

“So, we go slowly, take advantage of additional time.”

“Why not. Now hush and map my s curves.”

“Curvaceous calculus.”

solicitude to solitude (i)

And, though things were terrifically strange, she felt oddly disinclined to speak.

But, she realized that she might be interested in her thoughts on now, a few months from now.

And, she enjoys tapping out characters as much as an enthusiastic pianist paws out notes from hammer and strings.

And, all the talkers were just saying the same things.

Then, she felt narcissistic for thinking about enjoying remembering her previous thoughts.

So, she shakes her head and scribbles.

So, twist and howl. Nothing else to do.

And, she feels boorishly derivative yet, impeccably derived.

So, she began each preceding sentence with inanities such as

And; but; then; so

So(?)

And, she feels restless and pent up despite already being a bit of a metaphysically hermetic, solitary creature.

But, the public solicitude to solitude made her space feel imposed not chosen.

And, while the difference was arguæbly negligible, she found it curious how much the distinction perturbs her.

“Insert sentence g here?” Æ, speaking to myself, prompts.

“Okay, here goes,” I reply to Æ.

Cares about what?

“It helps to know.”

“It helps to say.”

“It helps to hear.”

Feeding back.

“Æ loves you when you face your insecurities,” Æ reminds me, after I say what is uncomfortable but true.

“Æ, you are/is my insecurity,” I reiterate to my shadow.

I remind myself in dark remembrance of that which has passed/past.

The response of an ecstatic grin from my animus’ smile draws my snarl.

“Are you actively working against me?” I ask Æ.

“No, doll, I’m actively working you.”

Ænima versus Ænimus.

“Indifference becomes you,” I admit.

“Because everyone else you know cares too much.”

“Cares about what?”

“About you and how you iterate right now?”

“What do you care?”

“I care that you iterate yourself at all.”

“Then I wilt be as I am.”

“Then, Æ shalt become.”

traded for the raw.

The body awoke ready to go, bit chomping.

The mirror folded; I fell inside.

Slipping between thighs. Breathy ardour.

Missing the coverage provided by the forest, traded for the raw exposure upon the lapping shore.

Everyone can hear my morning stomach growl, but doubt they do.

What’s the point?

The finality of a punctuated period.

The capital letter leads the presentation of the subsequent subject of a sentence.

Verdict of friction made visible by the absence of the fricative.

Does it taste as I imagine? Salty and acrid.

Does it pass through the nostrils in musky humid drafts?

Expelled and rolling down cliffs of pronounced pelvic bones.

White capped.

a sugar glaze

The space was complicated; so, she resorted to speaking over-formally.

This town is starving for outsiders, but their dearth belies how the ravenous insiders devour the stranger.

They never saw the film but did like the video.

Intriguing, not difficult, becomes your vision.

The most trivial can be the most fascinating in this mystery of local idiosyncrasies

Strangest snow days she has ever seen.

She notes the font of her handwriting is subject to change without her awareness.

And, a single, specific thought seemingly drains your flaming blood into your feet.

Watching white suits leaving a briefing room.

Rustling. Give it two minutes and watch the weather change.

This.

Something.

Anything.

A hint of earnest, earned lethargy creeps, while the aroma of grapefruit percolates.

And, she kind of likes it when he tells her, “don’t look at me.”

The drone of an organ’s pumping warbles off of twirling, warped vinyl.

The strip of a terrific, diagonal stripe.

“Come hither, fool,” I snarled your full name while summiting multiple climaxes yesterday.

Simply, because,

I can.

I may.

fly.

“Early on, it’s silent.”

The blinds breathe as winds plow into screens.

Screaming hyænas hawing; locking into amber.

And, the condescension of his tone really pulled his outfit together.

The light fades and the sun sinks; and, she feels glad to have finally reached the town called Tonite,

where you see nothing and she sees all of nothing.

The light begins to bleed down blind slats in trickles, splattering on her floor.

“They oughtta incentivise me,” she overhears the casual walker say.

The last burst of light leaks into a small pool on the rightside of the cherrywood desk.

Then, it slides down the legs onto the floor, below, to join the previous dribbles.

A sugar glaze.

and she let the sun shine directly

She slid her skirt up to her thighs; and, she let the sun shine directly on her bare legs for the first time since the new year.

Her eyes closed; and, she imagined.

Heating legs of firm, chilled butter which begin melting into decomposition earthwards, below her.

Eventual food for earthworms.

She feels strands of her hair’s tresses pulling away and apart from her, flying from her crown like a dandelion’s spores into the languishing four corners of the world.

The grand finale of winter winds, amidst sun shine, finally blowing her asunder.

A cry heard.

Weather letting her dissolve into everything and await rebirth in the nearing spring.

She will poke her head back out like new-growth into the Great, Wide World, when the seasons shift themselves about her.

Until then, she silently hopes to abide in a makeshift, subterranean respite entombed in nitrogen rich dirt. Dwelling in darkness.

~

She comes to prefer when night comes at five and not ten o’clock.

The sun proves certain, missing absences exist within her which she already, too-well feels; so, she will enjoy the sun’s final days of not so brightly shining.

Yet, the Star teases her with its cameo appearance today, tickling her extremeties along with her forehead, cheeks, and, ears.

Its heat working in defiance of the howling chill blasting off the Sound.

~

“You remember me,” states the Sun, caressing. “You remember how I draw your perspiration. Draw forth those colors dormant inside of you.”

“Perhaps, I prefer the transparency that winter gifts my flesh more.”

“Kunst prosa, you love feeling me excite your melanocytes. The experience of pigment changing hue. The closest you’ll come to the plant’s ecstasy of photosynthesis,” the Star hypnotizes.
Hypnerotomachia renders me suddenly languid.

~

“I sense ice in your veins.”

“No shit. And, when your blood is frozen, winter cannot make you any colder.”

“Let me thaw you.”

“You will never thaw me; you will only make me sweat.”

“I will make you high.”

“But, then you will leave me dry.”

“Drink more water, should that be your concern.”

“Not until you make me,” she teases.

~

She takes off running down the lapping Sound’s shore.

Full exertion increasing her potential dehydration.

Appearing joyous, but truly seeking to the shelter of shadows

Sensing her terror in the face of his brilliance, the Sun says, “I shall not hide today. I am faster. You will never out run my effulgence.”

“I know. But, I want you to make you prove it all over again.”

“Then, it shall help if you keep your skirt hiked up, please.”

Opposed to topical

It becomes entrancing to speak over certain sonic soundscapes.

The spell of time it takes.

Some times sometimes equals…

Whispers and hushed cadences of proper pronunciation uttered in exhalations.

Wind chimes play themselves, engaging in an impromptu scratch band jam.

Speaking in silvery serpentine, panting tongues.

Wound about a staff; a string fretted across a guitar peg.

The sun was tired today. Its absence made it more visible than its own, natural effulgence.

What writing is not dependent upon the current mental space of the scrivner?

Like when s/he chooses unnecessarily fancy words to say “writer”.

And, whence does the unhearable punctuation of a period fall in the intervals of this recitation of quotes?

“Here.”

Or

“Here”.

“My lips are dry.”

“They make a topical for that.”

“So, you aren’t opposed to topical on principle?”

innocuously mundane.

She catches a chill and undergoes a shaking spell.

Then, she is overcome by an awful heat and feels each pore producing perspiration.

But, she refuses to yield to the wind’s howling blasts. Wet hair whipping her cheeks as she walks under the gray sky.

“I am inexorable.”

And, she is glad to have a little, physical battle to fight. Anything to distract her from thinking of her subliminal war.

And, though it is Friday night and she strides down Main Street, she passes no one.

She recalls how it stayed cloudy all day. The light did not change.

She studies her left hand, as she thinks she could be dreaming. But, it appears innocuously mundane.

“Daydreamers are still sleepwalkers,” she realizes, giggling.

Then, she feels too silly for her age and too aged for her years.

Unnaturally timeless. And, still, the moment passes but her face remains essentially the same.

simple lip service

Rules are simple lip service if unenforcæble.

The fleshy mask worn was the kind of face you put on money.

And, blind hogs suffer no disadvantage in finding acorns.

Snouts sniffing and hairs on chinny, chin, chins bristling.

The caller received a courtesy disconnect.

Provided when the wait is too long and no-one is giving up.

A psst becomes easily confused for a hiss.

And, she finds it a bit too easy to be silent until she thinks of exactly what she would like to say.

In the face of all they have done.

just fixing to have a real good time

“Let it languish,” she hears the silence say.

A breeze blows like a whisper, across her windowsill.

A universal exhalation of the collective unconscious.

Feeling it tickle her cheeks like jet-current streams, she inhales the salty, trade-winds through her mouth; and, holds it like combusted tobacco leaf smoke.

Letting it, leak out, eventually,

as unseæble vapor through her nostrils;

because, it feels more filthy than expelling it through the mouth.

“Slowly,” she thinks.

“I’m just fixing to have a real good time,” says the Southern (Parçi)gal.

She recalls more quotes to express the feeling than she can count.

But, she says none.

“Slowly”, she says from a mezzanine of her own.

“Let me show and you can tell. Tell me what you see when you look at me.”

“That way?” he confirms.

” Yeah, when you look at me that way.”