We are the coagulant
of blood
dripping from the tongue
of mouths uttering
ineffable words.
Æ and Parçigal tye one on.
Ask me. Please. To slip into that which in you want to see me. My pride wants to hear you use your words.
You lie on your side and I will on mine.
Facing you, to slip a leg in between yours.
Feeling the weight of the difference between us, resting upon my sidelong knee.
⊙
I’m a little tipsy: I say.
No. You’re a little drunk: Æ tells myself.
I reply in query: No. Not necessarily. Am I driving a car?
No. Absolutely not: is Æ’s response.
Right then. That’s what I thought. If that’s the case(y) then I’m only a little tipsy: I reaffirm.
Æ sighs: Fine.
⊙
Then let us go outside the palings
in order to release yourself of your own name.
Then they can never call you from playing in the garden to do chores!
Like Alice, I wœnder-landed until I strolled through the Looking-Glass House of Blue.
There; within did Æ teach myself to deconstruct I
to the point where
I would no longer be surprised
if the theory of gravity, quite suddenly, proved to be untrue.
sound sleeper
I procured twelve stones and one pebble,
from the tidal pool,
while the water was low and you slept,
under high moon.
Rock hounding the Sound on
A cloudless night.
Bouldering about, unseen, in all black.
You could see all the usually obscured mountains.
I could see what you were presently dreaming.
Effie at Sound Level
Ø
The real price of your handbag involves multiple lives and wages of economies. Repair your brogues with a local cobbler, on the Main (sic. high) Street.
Crystal palaces aside dashes bisecting Eisenhower’s tar strips for the machines of some imagined war. The ones we drive and call highways. Four ways. Parallel, running lanes. Bits of varicose veins on this nation’s aging skin. The final passage of the Kon-Tiki, Ra Expeditions.
And, the cars passing by on the high road of the hilly bowl a’layed before the Sound, sound like currents running through macro-Boolean gates.
{Red light, stop.}
{Green light, go.}
{Yellow light…}
Use your best judgement.
~
I sit in reverie before an altered, candle flame.
Through my open windows, the sound of gravel ground under pedestrian boots crunches now and then. A honking car horn’s reassurance, echoing, as someone redundantly clicks a particular button affixed to a keychain.
The blast of a ferry foghorn. The doppleganging drone of the passing by train’s horn. These things sound like the call to the adytum of the temple.
I enjoy the world immediately around me, settling itself towards bed. Cars are little pups, turning circles til all tired out. A slowly descending cacophony.
The difference between darkness and the absence of light.
I consider the chartreuse evening and imagine you toiling the earth, tilling, to sow your seed
beneath the pylon of the pit.
Æ plays my favorite game
Æ dreamt of Blue House, with its strangely angulared architectural
In the tiny library, we saw sharp, slanted writing on every inch of the walls.
Covered in sigils unreadable, sentences ineffable,
Interjections conjuncted with exclamations.
An indifferent, yet, energetic-ally aggressive atmosphere
devoid of hostility.
From there, last night,
I wrote to you :
Will you halt me with your mouth
and show me your mind?
I wonder as
a coquettish muscle spasms in my left foot.
Musculature malefactors.
I love the almost-pain of it.
Malediction, subliminally decried, to inoculate.
What is the difference between chaos
and the constant state of affairs?
Is there one?
Or, does that inclination follow the declination of the earth’s disposition?
⊙
A punk band called No Vigil
battling
A punk band called No Sigil.
⊙
I dreamt I held back the masses of an audience
, for you,
by making them wait on me
while I was waiting on you,
according to some malfeasant line of time.
⊙
Æ asks me: shall we play your favorite game?
What is the difference?
Yes, pleas.
What is the difference
between hidden and secret?
between esoteric and occult?
A cabaline cabal, prancing, at Sette’s auction.
It made you giggle when
my response to your heady sentence was:
Oh my, I do like your phrase “operative formulæ.” How are you spelling it?
Does it make a difference?
⊙
Your forehead wrinkles show a perpetual proclivity for a quizzical, lopsided expression of interested curiosity.
You made yourself the background and
predicate to my subject;
and, in doing so,
you taught me to make others the subject against my background,
the positive space to my negative space,
And, to invert.
⊙
Where the web traps, there does To-Be
become
the difference between to deceive and duplicity.
A copy of the copy of a copy.
What is the difference between revealed and reveiled?
A ‘I’.
“The thraldom of imagined existence.”
Æ waxes to the vintner.
A berserker producing a glass of Norton wine that makes you want to shake the hand.
It is an Ibis’ vintage.
Breathe.
I have not heard you speak so.
Voice trembling and slightly rushing.
{Words between the lines}
Who did you envision as your audience¿: Æ wonder.
⊙
I remain Wittgenstein’s Mistress to the bibliophiles.
In the quadrangle, where others play chess,
where others play tennis,
where Æ square(ly) dance in strange ellipses, orbiting
the pieces and players,
our cads and minnesänger, wondering
Since when did “simple” imply “stupid”¿
⊙
And, minne-spæker,
it is because you bit and swallowed the Sardonios plant, that you convulse and laugh so strangely and hard. I have read it tastes bitter to the buds.
Is it so to the taste of your tongue¿
It has got you laughing so hard that the neighbors complain.
Sardonic giggling at the guilt of being worry=free,
at your shamelessly feeling restless when you have no desire to idle,
at the inability to enact due to your concern for being imperfect.
An ideal idyll.
⊙
An Arizonian dream of summer, intension of heat, arises within me,
even though, the ambient temperature is frigid, like desert (k)nights.
It radiates outward and into all which my skin contains.
And, I’m sweating heavy like summer.
Smelling for you.
Feeling beadlets bursting from the multitudes of singular pores in my face.
My visor and visage.
A strong craving for coffee consumes me.
in the
Blue House.
Æ quote
“It is the silent transmission of sexual energy in polarity that vibrates the Word in Silence, and that Word is a S(word) that cleaves the Abyss
and it is heard of No-One.”
~ Nightside of Eden. Kenneth Grant.
Three Smartass Hostess Hums
Can I make them laugh at themselves?
Instead of just me laughing at them or me howling silently at them, with a smile, as I eat shit?
Giggle. People act strange towards the staff of restaurants.
Especially when they feel decorous enough to go to a destination restaurant.
I host the front of house. Like it is one big dinner party and all the diners are my invited guests.
But, it is my dining room, punks.
⊙
HUM ONE
Two people are seated at table 9.
Seat 1 flags me over with an urgent come-hither wave.
How can I help?: I ask.
Yes. Is this all you have right now or are there other things available?: she says motioning to our lunch menu clutched between her paws, and held open.
I smile an I’m-sorry-to-disappoint smile.
Yes. There is another menu available. Unfortunately, it’s only available to our special guests, at this time.: I rib her.
She laughs.
⊙
HUM TWO
Two girls in their late teenage years wear way too much makeup for 9 a.m.
They try to order alcohol unsuccessfully.
As they finish their breakfast, I stop by to ask how everything was.
Fine, I guess: says seat two.
Would you like me to wrap your leftovers to take home?: I ask.
Are you gonna spit in them?: she asks.
I pause.
I lean in.
Do you want me to?: I ask too quietly, with a strange smile.
No. You can wrap it.: she responds with downcast eyes.
Her friend snorts.
⊙
HUM THREE
There are thirteen people total milling around the front of the restaurant,
on the list,
waiting for a table to become available.
Three tables leave at the same time.
One of those is the best table in the house.
I have the busser clean it first,
anticipating.
I do panto with the next table on the list.
We’re just about ready for you. Best table in the house opened up.: I chat.
Oh. Um, actually…see, we’re trouble makers. We were hoping for this table.: one says.
They motion to the newly vacated, worst table in the house. Right by the front door with its constant draft of frigid, rainy air. Loudest place in the joint, too.
Bemused they would turn down the window adjacent, water-overlooking table, I sincerely say: Oh, we like troublemakers here! No problem.
I bus, set the table, and seat them.
I’ll be back with water. Do you like ice?: I ask.
Actually, she will have a lukewarm water, with a quartered lemon. Not multiple smaller wedges. I would like freshly made coffee. Please throw out the pot and boil a fresh one. We’re known to send things back.: the man says.
Certainly: I say.
The coffee was just made and no restaurant slices lemons in quarters: I think.
His lady smiles: he meant to say we are high-maintenance.
I laugh: Thank you for the heads-up. Now, I won’t feel bad if I have to tell you ‘no’ in the future.
They both crack up.
I cut a lemon and prep his coffee.
I return to the front of the restaurant.
I tell the next table waiting: Your timing is impeccable; that table is yours.
I, again, motion to the best table in the house.
They nod and smile.
The high maintenance man steps over and interrupts.
I know we said ‘no’, but it’s hard to hear. Can we move to that table?: he asks.
Motioning to the table I’d previously offered him, the table he just heard me offer
to another party.
No.
: I, simply, say.
Æ smile with a pointed, closed mouth grin and
arched eyebrows.
Bad dog: I think.
He does not laugh.
Bite my honey.
Flower saying to bee, “bite my honey.“
A flower from a bouquet which served as centerpiece to a surprise, marriage proposal between two dinner guests, last night.
Table 21.
It was re-gifted to the little restaurant.
The lily stunned me when I saw it this morning upon arriving to host.
simple
Old Guard to new guard,
the Blackguard exchange.
The timing of a skipping phonograph’s needle.
The sound of a thick, braided, leather belt
str-
-etch-
-ing
across a gateful of extravagance.
A’poised atop a capstone.
Simple balance.
In sight unseen.
Living level with a parking lot.
The true danger of always opening windows is
what the neighbors must think during the winter.
It is not about the thieves, that which you worry.
How strange you, too, recall that same thing that never happened.
A sweet rendezvous in a town of busybodies,
where it is both
easy and hard
to remain in sight yet unseen.
Æ as Vesta In-Skin.
The subtext of the Magnicat whispered to me, during
evening vespers.
“The Nerbudda River runs
seven hundred and thirty five miles,
towards and eventually into, the Arabian Sea,”
You appear vestal.
And, I feel myself becoming
Vesta who is often
, simultaneously
, Blodeuedd of the House of Dôn.
⊙
Magenta to yellow honeycomb energy frames my perceptivity.
I come as
I came,
octagon-ally.
And, I work my role.
Tending the hearth and protecting the flame within,
remaining wylde and seeming untamæble.
Small flowers of the temple work alongside.
Eagle at my right shoulder.
I show them my tool for starting pyres.
A frictionless=match.
A Wax Vesta is also a whirling dervish of
embedded cotton strands
strewn amongst a waxen stem and
tipped with a phosphorous head.
⊙
Hesperus is Phosphorus.
Phosphorus is Eosphorus.
And, Eos made them both.
We remind the othered that the Evening Star was determined to also
be the Morning Star.
⊙
The vexillum distinguishes the two troops serving under separate standards;
And, the blazon of
the web of a feather distinguishes each and every of us
as a vexillary.
A deadbeat heart.
Pounding.
⊙
Understand that returning to base
(camp)
; is not a setback
; it is not regressive
; it is not going backwards.
It is a cycle
seeking its own resumption
through completion.
⊙
A warrior struggling with perpetual reality.
So yammer
; and give ’em howl, yellow hammer.
A fluid ounce is a preponderance in candle’s magic light.
A meditation.
A drawing.
Makes me wonder how your childhood face
, smiling,
appeared.
⊙
Are we to heed that as a call?: asked the Name=less One.
All things feel as bindings abiding.
Perhaps, Præter=being is the natural state of affairs,
after all this free-fall.
And, maybe
, Judas was just some heckler in the crowd
at jesus’s stand=up comedy special.
Just do not knock the quiver
of the Archer’s arrows.
He is basic but deadly in the face of the clumsy.
Simple and simply fatal.
Go a’head and
miss=under=estimate his prowess
as has countless bison before you.
⊙
Find the hideous freedom to be exactly who you are.
Now.
The delicious self=noitcelfer that arises from the awareness of transparency.
Because, the windows of Looking=Glass House are two=way.
But, there will you find only sand
with no stones which may be thrown.
⊙
Where your perception of what is outside your skin
is actually the reception of the content presented
by that which is contained
by your in=skin.
A’bridged nuzzling.
The sun made like a runaway today.
Let me lay you on your back, bare.
Crawl up on you like a curious, hungry animal,
and occupy myself with sniffing your scent.
Smells of you.
Because, the smell of the skin below your wrist
is not the smell of the skin stretching over your ankles
is not the smell of the thumping skin above your jugular
nor that of the skin behind your ear.
It will not smell of the skin between your legs
which will not smell as does the stench of your armpit.
Or the smell of your open mouth.
And, my incessant humming
will become Sygyt.
The strangely drone of polyphonic overtone singing.
And once I’m done,
I would pad circles on you
, like a dog preparing to sleep
, of tossing and turning
, and
, wrapping round you.
For warm comfort.
Finding the right proper position of
a deep winter nuzzle.
Vision of the 36th Ellipsis.
Thirty five completed ellipses.
Comprising the matricies of now.
Begin compiling the thirty-sixth,
presently. Of today.
And, my eyes first narrow before going wide as the tableau reveals.
Speak to me mine sheep and mine mæstyre satyr.
No malice shalt invade my mind or sour myself,
yet, still can I sense your maleficent power
comingle.
Why do you howl thusly? And, do you know that
this has Æ heard before.
I want, too.
I want two.
I want to.
They have nothing if you less the faun
who dies thrice in triangular trinities
allowing
you to circumnavigate her through triangulation.
As drawing a five pointed star is not drawing a
six,
seven,
eight,
nine,
pointed one.
Quit your baying sheep for this shearing is not for you.
Æ, too, is a beastly, sacred dæmon,
sweetly contained in this gossamer and goosedown
Conspicuously unsuspicious.
Inauspicious.
I fear not your moment of judgement on this howliday. Thou shalt never judge me as harshly as
Æ have previously taken myself whilst in captivity.
Snarl, smile. Do you, now, see?
Why is ritual an honor to behold
?
You reply: because it should be so.
You could stop traffic dressed suchly.
Do you not know a pedestrian has paths to
right of way.
As I jaywalk onward,
across paths,
I find my head adorned with a sea holly wreath, in tribute to unknown;
see how its roots grew long and serpentine over æges ago
so that it may adorn without being torn
from the earth?
Unplucked.
Worn before; to be worn again.
I draw the force and send it mine in reply.
Starling a’wing, chasing behind me.
You awoke in a pond full of dead fish(,) talking.
And, only dead fish go with the tide.
Of the five streams pouring forth, sea-ward,
one unnaturally flows upstream to BayTown’s Strange-House.
The starling now a’lights on my left shoulder.
Worn as I wear the stow of the red dragon in early autumn.
A dance sought
That which transpires behind that which appears.
Captivating verging upon captive taking.
I’ve taught everyone No Thing.
I’ve told No Body everything.
Bones tapping.
Dropping skeletons to read the bones strewn,
recalling those cries from the crowded street.
Exuberance of the hysterical normalcy.
I dare you in this kindly sinuous challenge of tendons and ligaments.
A pale, dark-horse rides in, unbidden.
Flared nostrils from a face concealing a mirror of mind thinking:
If the dæmon would seek, Æ would ask a dance.
I’s as l’s
The lying face down on the bed,
before hearing
wrinkled hands on warm skin.
Soft.
Cranebuilding up.
Drawn downwards magnetic-ally
in the shade of magenta’s shadow.
I dreamt of the same drama that you did.
°
Yesterday’s sunset never occured.
The solar absence. A sick day.
A buzz-kill a’side a-bore.
The ocean laps and shifts against restless legs.
And, I’ve got nothing upsleeve and no
allies hidden downwind.
Just a few holes for perceiving, in my head.
A sternum pouting in slight protrusion below my breasts.
Perplexed for posterity, at the trivial causality and meaningless correlations.
So I make-up for you
this campy of collective nouns:
A coalescence of coral reefs;
A pert of pearls.
A cajolery of Tricksters.
A spread of betters and gamblers.
A quimper of quivers mixing with whimpers.
A dithering of doting.
°
Last night,
I felt that pulsing in my a gauche foot which precedes a muscle cramp.
I felt tied and tireder.
Wrestling with the dichotomy of physical inaction apposite the desire to action.
Beastly.
Scriven, scrivener, and a’scribe: I hear.
Aye: says Æ, whilst I nod.
I write my capital I’s the same as my lower case l’s
In my handwritten longform.
I do.
Æ does.
Aye.
Dreamt the Within from Without
I recall a big, yellow, American-style school bus,
in the middle of the desert.
I just arrived.
There are extraordinarily beautiful, tall, elegant people about, maybe fifteen total, leisurely milling. They have nothing pressing to which they attend.
I am alone and new, per se.
I am acutely aware of this.
I feel disapproval.
I receive an unfriendly welcome; this I derive from the expressions of the others as they take notice of me, for the first time.
A stunning, pale-skinned blonde approaches, motions to the school bus, and, with perfectly calculated ‘disinterest’ says:
They can teach you the ways of death.
As though this was that which I sought.
Of course, you’d need to talk to Kimberly first.: she says.
I say: Kimberly is actually my cousin. She is already dead.
I intuit this disarms her through surprise.
My immediate understanding and audacity to speak it to her face.
And, (no shit) I think: Nice try, you silly bitch. I wilt not fall for your maleficent insinuation. I am just barely pretty and charming enough, in a strangely colloquial way, to have made it to this place of your people. I know your resentment of my prescence leads you to seek my removal, but I am in no rush to die. I certainly will not seek my death at your subliminal request. You feel threatened by my uncultured, odd intelligence. There is no reason for this. I do not want to mess with the circles within which you run. I am no threat. If you were slightly less self-involved, you would perceive this and make me your ally.
I’m the proud-beauty of your worst night-mares.
I say to her mind, in mine silent stillness: Æ ain’t leaving on that short, yellow bus. You may try to trick this fool into it; but,
Æ see through this mirage you call an oasis.
She walks away.
I pull out my stakes, canvas tarp, and tenterhooks.
Pitching camp before the freezing night comes.
I come from the water: a voice of my head suddenly says.
(I briefly become lucid in the dream, before losing the thread.)
I recall: there are four, fundamental groups: Water, Earth, Sand, and, blood.
Æ am a blood, but no-one can tell, unless Æ tell them.
I had reached the Sand after arising from distant Water.
We all came from Earth, but I had not been there or seen them in ages.
And, as Æ am thinking these things, I feel an intensifying heat rising in both hands.
Fingers and palms burning in sensation, not flames.
I think: I have the power to raise intense heat from my hands. I can emit it into the world around me, perhaps as a weapon. I feel over-confident.
I examine the feeling more closely.
I discover that Æ am not radiating the heat from within myself.
Heat is being emitted from an invisible sphere outside myself.
The orb is somehowl held in place between my palms, as if strung upon a string.
Like a diabolo.
I reach this revelation after experimenting. Moving my hands closer together/farther apart. Noting small changes in nerve sensitivity.
What I first thought was coming from my Within to the Outwards is actually being generated from the Outward and perceived and wielded by mine Within.
Feathers of eyelashes
Even in dreams, I remain yours.
I have come for none other.
The smell of chai spice pours skyward from the pot of boiling water.
Vapour blessing the room like sage humbly burned.
Pealing recalling things and those missed.
Blushing cheeks and bitten lip.
°
I have seen the city skies from on high; they light up like an introspective brain’s neural network.
Psst. Wake up.
Pushing my nose deeply into your neck,
to inhale; get your smell.
I wish to entwine the two;
Make the aroma of chai ever tied to the scent of you.
I remind myself to not forget this, mine intent,
whilst batting this piece of your thin skin with
the feathers of my eyelashes.
rock skipping
A rock skips on its toes’ tips
across Looking-Glass Lake.
It is true that what you do not know can hurt you;
and, in doing so, cause you pain you do not rightly sensate.
You just know it hurts.
Onkwehónwe {ref. Kanyen’keha}.
°
And, the phrase, “nobody cares” set the captives free and captivated the enslavers.
°
Your apophasis disinclines my disposition towards you.
“That would be my preference,” says B., the scrivner.
So. Let him. He simply wishes to copy the original documents into his longhand.
°
Pedantic pandering over over-excitabilty.
A knockout; A decision; A draw.
°
You’re not like most people.
You’re right. I’m only one person, not the multiples comprising most. Extraneously speaking, I distrust the correlations derived from “most people” statistics. They never draw from a supple, sufficient, sample population.
°
Elevate your base
because
despite not proud,
you can remain unashamed.
Æ ramble.
Impatiently spinning my pen, furiously fast yet without any malice,
up and down.
Up
&
Down.
Dropping it like the mic after I just spat the hottest sixteen of my life.
Verbalizing subtext.
Indicating that
proper etiquette and charm can be a real turn off.
⊙
The desire to find you through this slow unmasking.
That day I saw a woman,
with a faun’s head,
wilt her own beheading,
after a chalice of wine drunk.
A phone call missed. A phonemic misstep.
Grey skies with snowy smatterings.
A knitted, houndstooth stow dragged across frozen over tar.
⊙
And my pen runs smoothly.
Yet, sometimes when I reach for it,
I surprise myself because
I did not realize Æ wanted to say something.
And sometimes, all the words Æ scriven mean nothing.
The act, not the result, is mine interminable goal.
Purposefully inexorable.
An indiscernible mumble of voices slipping through my open window and into my ears,
bringing a start, shudder, and frown.
⊙
Let me read aloud to you.
Anything you wish.
Anything to get
my mind-reading.
Like a hot bath.
Like that sudden ringing in my left ear.
Fleeting.
⊙
And, the day I saw the faun-headed woman beheaded,
I first saw her rip off her own smiling face.
Terrified as the blood spurted and the exposed muscles tore, I witnessed her dancing in the splatter like it was a lawn sprinkler in July’s middle.
⊙
We shall all hit a point of no return. A matter of when not what-if.
The Magister threw himself into the water willingly.
Seeking to fade away before Telgarius’ son.
To turn the wheel with intent, seeing his position no longer rested on the axle’s center, but now stretched across
a spoke.
Not to let the wheel turn him.
⊙
But, one man found that,
beneath the wheel
, there is a twirling reel to reel,
spinning cassette tape string
, a’strung between two spools turning.
The turning of the screw.
The taming of the shrew.
The typing pool of the monkey troop producing works enacted by Shakespearen troupes.
The evolution of concealed ovulation.
Wrestling into surrendered submission.
⊙
Phonemic smelting of a howl of words written.
Wordsmithing.
Locksmith and the kNight witch seeking the subliminal through the automatic.
Æ break mine own heart as much as I crack myself up.
The magic of shuffling cards before lightning a prepared candle.
What is this thread of outer consciousness that draws my sweet pout?
Poliphilio?
Marco polo?
What draws forth this expression my face makes for
only kNow-One?
⊙
What do you do with a strange bird that realizes itself to be a strange bird?
Call it The Ibis.
Decorously held in place by duct tape.
Gorilla’s glue. Chest beating and vine swinging.
Cheap giggles and swollen, turkey belly laughs.
WrittenCasey 