Dreamt of déjà vu .

I saw it while dreaming of the restaurant.

Seating parties of varying sizes to tables;

Assembling a dynamic loop of a jigsaw puzzle.

Chess like square-dancing.

Moving quickly whilst not appearing to hurry.

⊙

A skeletal, thin, blonde woman wears a strange stow made of scraps of many types of fabrics.

When she stands and puts her hands on her hips,

the effect is she appears like a plush, red heart.

When she appears as such,

those I’m seating, I seat without menus.

They are different and seem to be unperceived by the menued others.

⊙

A menuless and short but muscular man, fiftyish perhaps,

looks at me,

as my stride slides alongside

his seat at a table for two.

He leans his neck back slowly as I approach.

I stretch my torso forward and past my legs;

{anticipatory}

I crane my neck.

I watch his head twist a dramatic 90° as I find myself directly aside him.

I am mid stride and passing him by

and, somehow when he parts his licked lips, I find my mouth upon his,

four eyes smiling like two idiots.

A fast pair of deep kisses.

I withdraw, not missing a step.

I am shocked at how seamlessly and seemingly naturally, I warmly dropped my professionalism.

I intuit any other diner or employee perceptive enough to have noticed this exchange, would have found themselves smiling.

I am stunned at the strange pride felt at

his bidding my kiss so publically, innocently, and nonchalantly.

And, within this very non-lucid dream,

I felt dream jà vu.

I’d not met him before; but I

knew him still.

Dreams Recovered

Two inches of whiskey cut the slightly sugared ice cube that clinks against glass.

And, it strikes such that I wonder if

the movement from barter-subsistence economies to cash-wage economics

redefined the notion of freedom.

⊙

I dreamt I found the missing earring.

⊙

Do I still appear obstinate and obdurate?

My back feels tight.

⊙

I dreamt the very same knotted muscle could be helped by the difference in a table that could seat four and a table that could seat two.

It made no sense on waking.

⊙

The re-couping of regime change wars.

Quid pro quo and blahblahblah.

A political revolution or a social one?

Who is allowed to feature in a narrative?

The disability resulting from uncertainty.

Costs of innovation.

I need a hair cut, but have not been here long enough to

to know to whom to go.

⊙

I dreamt a being with violet eyes, violet hair, and violet eyebrows came to me because it was said I knew how to not break but to bend.

A limbering

The shadows in the room grew.

Dipping the length of my leg into this newly found darkness,

like a penknife pushing it.

Stretching and testing.

And, I do not smile because I do not want to, despite feeling quite well and glad.

{in spite of bronchitis}

In my space, for the moment, there is simply, only No-One here to signal, unconsciously, with subconscious microexpressions.

My face enjoys

this fleeting freedom from observation.

My ears need not hear.

My eyes need not look.

My nostrils will choose when they wish to smell.

There is no thing I wish to taste or touch outside of my skin

right, exactly, now.

Just my own internal limbering.

So, I shift my body slowly to the rhythm generating; and,

feel my muscles begin to give.

I feel my inside/s.

It feels good and well warm/ed.

Hands raise above my head.

Breathing, not breathing.

(Resumption)

(Concession)

My heart keeps on beating.

And, my movements mirror

myself imagining me

as the serpent coiling ’round the Caduceus staff.

The toes of my dexterous foot, the finality of my snaking tail.

Inhale.

The fingers of my a gauche hand,

the small extremity of my fanged head.

Spiraling, in place.

My neck pops loose whilst

stalling in the suit of wands

and a decade of venom releases from muscle memories long forgotten.

I drain the venom out of my feet.

Exhale.

I raise the newly freed energy into my fangs.

I suddenly recall:

When playing a kazoo,

remember,

to hum;

don’t blow or you’ll

tear the wax paper.

The Undercutters: Chapter One- Why Effie lost her job.

Prologue

Introduction

“She was always such a sweet girl, but she just lost her shit,” bar patron 1 says, at 9:00 a.m., to the responding P.D. officer.

He continues, for the benefit of the record, “No, I wouldn’t say she was provoked; but, the old woman she was trying to seat was being a real bitch. They walked to three different tables; and, more and more people kept accumulating at the door; and, when that old biddy said ‘no’ to the third table she offered her, she just…”

“She just lost it!” interjects the diner at table 14.

“Yeah! Her face went all cartoony. Like in those old(e) Warner Bros. cartoons, when you realize the sheep is actually a well-dressed wolf in sheep’s clothing. Like, all pretty smiles and dimples until…,” bar patron two adds.

“Exactly like that. Then she just reared back and clocked that poor, elderly woman square in her jaw. I mean, she coulda easily been 70 years old.” says the indignant wife of afore mentioned diner at table 14.

“Right?! And, that lady just slugged her. It was fucked up!!” the thirteen year old kid to her right nods, grinning wildly.

“Justin!” the wife chastises to her oblivious son.

Justin continues, “Yeah, and that old lady dropped like a fly hitting a bug zapper. Zzzzppp!!!” he illustrates.

“Justin!!” Mom responds.

The P.D. officer asks the group-at-large, “Then what happened?”

The group-at-large goes silent.

Finally, Justin elaborates as the others nod in strangely silent agreement, “Everyone and everything went all silent for forever. Until. Until, the host lady started laughing all hysterically and real loud.”

“That’s right, Just,” says mom, patting his shoulder.

Dream of a sleepy hum.

Hush and sleep: he says.

You know the effect such words from you, produce in me, brut(e): I think.

I smile and snuggle under the covers.

I thought I could catch you: I mumble, frowning a bit, fretting you will be gone when I re-enliven.

Outside, hail begins softly falling.

exchange

I say: you seem like the kind of guy who, if famous, would make his address public to encourage trespassers who could then be legally shot on site/sight.

He laughs: that could be my remake of The Most Dangerous Game.

I say: when you say “don’t tread on me,” I hear, “don’t tease me, I’m sensitive.”

I’m no bully.

Consider: Lordosis behavior and (bow)ties as the doses being titrated according to the response.

High heels were originally designed for men riding steeds. Heels hold stirrups, see. Push your heels down to get a proper seat in the saddle.

Today, the cost of the high heel is in its signal communicating desire. Done so with a bit of nonchalance.

It creates a slight spinal arch indicating receptivity.

Consider a (bow/neck) tie again.

You can get choked out easily, if the knot is grasped and twisted.

I cannot effectively run away, quickly, in heels.

Subliminal symbiotic signaling of an exchange.

A Fitt

I remember. A lot. Retention is knee jerk and not conscious.

Souls wrought like iron.

Hide in your cave until the light returns and you forgive yourself the impatience winter demand as its dues.

You mean the idea of accepting that you won’t want to accept the truth?

Breathe.

Now stop and fear me. Very good, beast.

I love the lapping crests of waves on shore like tongue on my cunt.

But, this desert of diurnal dehydration

recalls howl we do not drink water whilst sleeping,

though dreaming allegedly burns as many calories as wakefulness.

I am the power of your dreams and the incapacitation

of your night-mares.

Horseapples are not so delicious as horseradish

And mushrooms taste of warm, spilt semen.

And this perpetual goal of ascertaining the unobtainable makes me corrigibly incorrigible.

Contained to overflowing.

Delicious duplicity of discomfort.

And every shudder forces the air out and through my diaphram,

and, I feel my ribs struggle against constriction.

I can count them inside myself, through the agency of this binding,

Just as you could now count them with your fingertips.

Opening my dictionary

Charismatic people carry much telluric gravity.

Those working on their feet do not need to join a gym.

It’s that simple?!: he asks incredulously.

Neither of us are simple, but

we are both, rather, basic.: I reply

What is the difference between transcribing and transcryption?: he asks

I don’t know.: I say.

Huh, me neither.

⊙

Your eyes are hard and wild.: he tells me.

I know.: I tell him.

And it turns me on when you aptly identify an argument as inane.: I add

Blahblahblah: he giggles in response.

Filthlessly ought to be an adjective because it describes the subject ‘you’.: I say

It is a word.: he responds, opening my dictionary.

Moving Smells.

I think I feel you rest your hand on my knee.

The neighbor makes breakfast for her dinner;

and, my flat smells like the last time I was in your home and you made toast.

Heyoka thinks of Tulpa.

Æ whispers: I miss him, too.

⊙

The previous tenant left crystals on the sill of each window and a geode in the cabinet under the sink, along with strange, laminated sheets of paper bearing strings of seemingly arbitrary numbers and strange affirmations written in broken, American English.

I choose to not disturb the relics.

The clock on the stove is incorrect;

yet, it reads 11:11 the moment after I sign the final leaf of a new lease, the landlord leaves, and I find myself alone in this new space of mine.

I walk to buy lightbulbs.

I pass a dog carrying the leash in its own mouth.

⊙

And, I feel, simultaneously, not old enough yet too old to please you.

And, though the sun returned this morning, it cannot warm the air.

And, I suddenly feel like a silly girl because I never get cold.

⊙

My heater is off.

My windows are open.

The overhead, bedroom fan spins.

Stirring the air.

Swirling the vapour of my exhalations.

I loathe sucking my own exhaust fumes.

An unuttered question yells at me as “the old man upstairs” rambles about and creaks my ceiling, his floor.

I begin fidgeting with my fingers after setting down my pen.

⊙

My orchid’s blooms burst open, pridefully, last night.

Two bulbs remain,

still and clasped tight,

with a promise of what is to come.

Palm up

Relishing when your smirk draws my snarl.

Proving to me, that you are second to none.

Give me your open palm, I will trace the wrinkles running.

Massaging knuckles a’loose.

Popping like logs a’flame,

the liquid spaces between bones and cartilage.

I am cleaning your hand’s battleground

from being strewn with tension’s carnage.

I can make you swallow hard, unexpectedly, but

let me be soft right, exactly now.

Turn on the radio.

Let’s listen to some interview on the public broadcasting system.

Listen until we are bored enough to

assemble our very own Ways and Means Committee.

Our tax dollars, after all.

I espy, with mine little eyes, four seagulls a’lit on the roof

across the way.

Framed between the two distant buttes of land wrapping the water

into the body known as the Sound.

And, I have naught to say, yet I say it anyways.

And, still, I can count crows like sticks and tea leaves.

My grandmother taught me:

One for sorrow

Two for joy.

Three for boys.

Four for girls.

Five for me

Six for all.

The way when you see a bale of hay you must

make a wish and look away.

A pink and blue sky is a wishing sky.

Not to be confused with the racket of space star ordering and wishy thinking.

Giggle.

Dream of the leveled field

The meadow languishes.

Three pairs of your feet’s steps remain visible now,

even though you lied down, minutes ago.

Grass pressed into small etches slowly refilling themselves to full volume.

My eyes go loose and wide as

they stop seeing and start imagining the imprint your form will leave

when you arise.

Topiary impressionist piece.

Watching the moody weather make its precious, little changes.

False threats of pending precipitation.

The sky throwing a hissy fit for our benefit.

I finally sit down to watch it proper.

Strange grid-like lines buzz low intensity neon colors into a concaved and convexed axis.

Strange maths laboring, barely concealed by a cloudy cover.

I feel that sudden lucidity accompanying

the realization that I am dreaming.

Serving Specters

Come.

Sit by the fire in the hearth.

I will put my chin on your knee, stare into the ether and let my thoughts run.

Perched upon your feet, keeping your toes warm.

Sitting on the floor.

Closer to the earth.

The storm passes, the rain relents, and the sky above the Sound nearly recovers.

The air outside remains cold.

⊙

Locals say this place is cursed.

I’ve seen enough tragedies in others in my four months here, to believe it.

Heard of even more.

Yet, here shall I establish my residence.

A mid-thirty year old,

amongst the retirees still seeing themselves as inhabitants of Stellar Street.

Mick and Keith working the corner shop.

⊙

The wealthy snow birds hum, at the restaurant where I work, about migrating to the South for the winter.

Winter homes.

“Guess how old I am”: he says.

His wife giggles.

Howl I loathe this game.

But, this pair is old enough to not take anything personally.

78: I guess.

The correct answer is 97.

He proceeds to tell me experiences from both the first and second world wars.

I am captivated.

They do not take their leftovers to go. They turn down the offer of free bread.

°

The less well-to-do appear even more non-corporeal.

No winter homes to which they may abscond.

Disembodied spirits of bodies that no longer exist.

To serve and host at this restaurant requires second sight.

Many of these people long ago became invisible to most.

Are you Irish?: he asks.

No, I’m from the South.

Oh, I was stationed there with the good old boys. They went to bars during their off-time. I went to museums and landmarks. But, I was odd.: he tells me.

He shares stories of being an 18 year old from Montana who ended up in the South during George Wallace days.

I am captivated.

He and his wife take their leftovers home in a box and ask for extra free bread

which they are given.

A nuzzle

Let me nuzzle my cheek, just barely, against the uppermost part of your pectoral muscle while you tell me stories of before I knew you.

Let us, again, rub limbs together like how crickets sing, to keep warm.

Because I can see the pending winds of winter on the watery horizon of the Sound admidst the

clouds of steely grey.

Smoke from some celestial dragon finishing an exhalation

from his degree of inclination.

Pull close in arms and tether me against you.

Listen to the furnace rattle and to the homestead’s ribbing creaks.

Because, when the partially frozen rain begins descending,

we wilt not see but what is immediately in front of us,

So, let it be one to the other, through this season of alaying bare.

Elliptical orbits

Absconding into the maelstrom, with the spirals of myself.

These circles containing and being contained by me.

Upon hearing your kindly laugh, my torso relaxes and I smile then

miss my train

of thought.

And, oh, how today’s strange sun casts a horrific smile over the snow-peaked caps, without melting them bare.

With caprice.

But, this coming winter, that is misery’s company, loves to re-enliven

a springtime bloom.

These changes in the degree, the continued inclination of rotations, occur.

Turning the cosmos on and off with the flick of a switch.

And, atoms look solid but there is so much space within them.

Hollowness of the empty plenum.

You can accomplish all and everything in the company of infinity,

because nothing there is done incrementally.

Evolution moves more quickly when our orbit is at its most elliptical.

Re-cognition to Pre-position

He says: Attention is not the same as recognition.

I reply: What if you seek the attention of just one, only to be gained through recognition?

A remembrance of your re-cognition.

Private exhibitions in a single gallery.

Not a diasporic display, even if openly splayed.

The change from bitter to better is [i] before [e]

Except after [c], like my initial.

So, Æ remain unembittered for the better; but,

sometimes, my left eye twitches

A defiance of my body in the face of the mirrored reflection of self-control.

Self-taxing to grow your privatized, closed economy.

And, I scriven in this big notebook with smut.

Do most people know for whom they make themselves appear

or do they just present?

I should have written the words flowing through mind as I slipped to sleep, last night,

because, now, they come less easily.

⊙

Exfoliating feedback into smoothness.

Bang and blame.

Someone imitating you back to yourself to show how ugly you just appeared to them.

Trying to tell the girl who dogged herself to her face.

You remind me of mom, making that face: she says, making a face.

That’s exactly the kind of thing our mom would say to flip the script when she feels uncomfortable: I think but do not say.

The hinterlands wherein we hide behind passive aggressive similes and abide behind thoughts unsaid.

I am not whom I used to be; and, you liked her better; but, I like me more.

Price your art for your target markets and I’ll keep giving myself out for free.

Valued or bought and sold?

Valueless or invaluable?

Just desserts or just dessert?

A dable of monsoon in a desert.

Success for me is not success for you.

Success for me is the Tao of doing while still being able to notice when my bootlaces untie; so, I may, once again, pull this sea monster heart up by them.

He says: I know the magic trick called Algerian Bootstrapping.

I giggle.

I wasn’t talking about you, but I like to: I say with the pedantic, daft determination of someone choosing to end her sentence with a preposition.

Pre-position.

Period Pains – Homework (Peel Session)

No rights: homage.

/Do your homework/

/hand it in/

/do your homework/

/you can’t win/.

⊙

The newly hired, seventeen year old busser arrives for her fifth shift.

I have been training her; and, she is under the mistaken impression that she answers to me.

She walks up to me and says: I know I’m supposed to wear all black, but I felt like wearing green today.

She wears a lovely army-style green button down shirt.

Am I busted or does it really matter?: she asks.

Yeah, it matters: I laugh: They’re gonna make you go home and change, I bet, but talk to J.

J. sends her home to change clothes.

I think: she’s gonna fit in just fine, on this isle of misfit toys, if she can deal with wearing the uniformed colour.

Concatenate through Catalisis

Consider an unabiding yet unbidden compulsion to comply.

Like how geometrical axioms are neither synthetic judgements made a priori, nor are they experimental facts.

They are conventions.

I do not enliven life through vitiating the mystical.

Yet, I use geometrical axioms everyday.

The magical, unconventional nature of all of our common conventions.

The cost of convenience should be underwritten in insurance policies.

The difference between idée reçue and idée fixe.

To understand universal symbolism you must realize

it is all subliminal.

A real dilemma, in the technical sense of formalized logic.

The associated oxyopia.

The difference between invoking and evoking.

What you see inside the mirror is just an image of reality,

a virtual reality- a dream.

So what are we, but breathing mirrors, dreaming ourselves awake with

an intuitively informed sense of discrimination, with this ability to perceive patterns.

Being perceptive is to be Praterhuman.

⊙

Someone asks: Why do you always speak in such language?

My eyes go wide, in pure surprise.

How could I not?: I blurt out.

From a planked position.

Troubadours clap out: one, two, three, four

before launching their song.

Choreographers snap: five, six, seven, eight.

⊙

Í, silently, count

one, two, three

four

five.

⊙

{Inhale and move.

An animal playing her lungs,

with the discipline of the earnest open-amateur.

Done for pleasure and not profit.}

⊙

A fugue of breath.

Comingling.

There is no room for thought when stood upon only one foot’s toes.

There is just getting oxygen to muscles without falling too hard.

Repeat until the body is too tired to not sleep.

It is not always elegant, and sometimes,

it becomes less so as the progression continues.

Irrelevant.

The point is the intent to doing;

and, the resultant action.

You’ve got to enjoy

the ride

until, abdomen and sides ache from maintaining

unnaturally natural postures.

⊙

It is in this ephemeral space from which

Í best perceive the flowing visions.

Pure restraint,

Time in mind.

Coalescing confluence of the conjunction

of this intersection of dimensions.

Planes upon planes with turtles

all the way down.

⊙

A whirling dervish aside a spiraling top.

Spinning pips and mumbly peg.

I do what I can to pass the time.

Only boring people suffer from boredom.

Says the voice called: don’t stop now.

So, í drop into a planked position.

A push up posture slowly dropped into an upwards arch.

Face presented to the moon.

Folding shoulders

With idiosyncratic impunity,

to own this longing to belong…

Sacred wood is the heaviest to carry,

But the most worthwhile in terms of time to cost,

down to, smouldering, remaining benefits of glowing embers.

Whose odd, red light trembles like magma flows.

And a voice more clearly reveals that it is a musical instrument

when it speaks in languages foreign,

In a strange tongue

that makes my shoulders suddenly fall forward,

caving in

going downwards

Shallowing into empty water lakes

into the above of

each, respective collarbone.

Where skin becomes

shoulder.