Monolith-Fly Golden Eagle

No rights: homage to a song whose lyrics are still hard for me to make out after jamming this track for many years.

There is a certain mood that was made for this song.

It is here, today, on this slippery Sunday morning.

⊙

It reminds me of two words:

Hi-wa-itck: a Mohave tradition concerning lovesickness that is associated with insomnia, anxiety, light depression, and loss of appetite.

Front of center: (archery) the weight of an arrow tip that determines the penetration of the intended target.

⊙

/Lightly as we go.

I got ya hand inside my…

And where it ends nobody knows/

/So tell me what I’m supposed

To do

When all my thoughts get wrapped up in you/

/Was like an engine sucking steam

Just letting it slide/

/Just like your smile is so alive.

A bow and arrow shot you…/

/…coming unglued/

\Ahhhhhh let it go!/

Verba Eclipsata

The ascent of a scent,

warm and humid like southern nights.

A recollection of something never had yet still known,

like the smell of a world existing prior to the industrial revolution.

Encoded in all minds, like a forgotten dream suddenly recalled.

“It’s curious how ‘illicit’ is used more than ‘licit.’ ”

“That’s not what I’ve come to discuss.”

“Are you sure about that?”

The livery stable holds a horse rode hard and put up wet.

From the projection of the rider’s own limbic system,

thereby was a scythe observed

being cleaned

off in a river of cortisol,

and, then, resheathed into the odd, wrappings

made of hide.

The harmony of the discord between a

sympathetic

And

parasympathetic

nervous system that is only given rest through

relentless fight or flight.

The capture and surrender of two individual, respective attentions.

Things contained and separated by encasings of skin.

Verba Eclipsata Intende A Dinspir.

Going Native

Taut red skin

Mercury droplets shifting, smearing.

The scent of the vanilla extract.

A compromise made in offering to being uncompromising,

to be compromised.

Reclamation of a piece of land left to lie fallow

after slash and burn farming.

Going native is just realizing your root.

A gift economy.

Sudan Archives – Glorious

No rights: homage to music new to me.

The feminine yet uniquely honest sound coupled with the visual sense of movement.

The interplay of gender.

Of calm and distress.

Tension of bound strings against percussion.

Just lovely.

Glad they make and share.

Pearl eats Oyster

The wex of supplication

The hex of self-sacrifice.

An aloe juice applied.

A smoked cigarette.

for supplication

of abasement.

⊙

Simplicity may dissolve into

a unity of psychic diversity.

Four bases produce

endless genotypes producing

infinite phenotypes.

The nature of nurture or lack thereof.

The art of service:

The difference between

I’m happy to help.

&

I’m glad to help.

Private humility

Laughing in the darkness of that which gifts you discomfort.

Where strangers are seldom seen.

⊙

I make circles. Keep up with my eyes.

Let it all be a tactical, tactile trick.

Kind brats of men move my pen.

See and know. Bathe with and clean.

Tepid water tested by toes while the ewer of a

faucet head drips.

⊙

Wake from a lucid dream into sleep paralysis at a touch of skin.

Churlish obstinacy and insubordination.

An affixed clothe-spin stinging like an inability to articulate.

A sheet hanging until until no longer wet.

The silence of the narcissist to the empath.

The empathic, giggling punishment of a narcissist.

A fretted string strung too tightly,

coiled to snap like a cobra.

A mouse that

turns out

to be a mongoose.

The extension of legs when moving from flat footed

to en pointe.

A swan taking flight.

A hunter knowing a swan strays not too far from its pond.

The thrill and repulsion of an irregular pearl who consumes

and swallows the oyster muscle.

.

Sweeping up

Sweep me off my feet.:he said.

This was different.

The difference between breathless and breathlessness.

I could set fruit on you.

⊙

I’ve been dreaming of restaurant work. Not stress dreaming.

The other night I was seating songs on the dining room floor.

Color swirls and wave patterns that

you could not

visually perceive yet

you still see

And, they made hummin’ noises.

Dreamy little lilts that were not parts of the songs they represented.

⊙

I just got off a great yawn of a breath.

⊙

Imagine the inconceivable: you say.

Well,: I say: gladly, assuming you recognize

you have requested i prove gödel’s sentence g

[trans. The very constructs of the query are technically

impossible to prove by the rules

enlivening the question as reasonable to me.]

⊙

I look up and

my neck cranes over my left shoulder,

to shudder and squint into the sun.

The moon will be in its place soon enough.

One Step Ahead Aretha Franklin

No rights: homage.

/I know I can’t afford to stop for one moment./

/I’ve tried but can’t take two/

/Cuz one step ahead is a step too far away/

Unidyll Cads

Some of us are born out of synch with time

, revealing shady shadows

hazy

making weird and wet.

Even now the power lines can be seen as

demarcators between sky and Sound

, the lie and the allusion of a false horizon.

As, it is not a two dimensional axial tangle where water meets sky

It enjoins the earthen solid with the heavens and the sea.

Like how I could not see the mountains to my left

, for a solid month. And

, upon, seeing them

, to only mis-take them to be transient clouds of vagrancy.

The crows take their nuts

, chucked down to the Pavement below.

The chickadees take and taste everything fearlessly.

The Stellars’ Jays need lots of attention

, carrying boomboxes slung over their left wing

, blaring The Boys are Back in Town.

The junkos take nothing but simply get caught in condo hallways above parking decks.

The hummingbirds

, they come with simple ferocity for the taste of sugar water.

And a staccato strikes repeatedly. In time

, I take action.

My left hand flips an ancient

, anchor Roman coin.

(No calling heads or tails

, as there is simply Janus).

Flick

, twirling woosh

, palm-slap catch.

My right hand plays with a switchblade knife.

Opened.

Balanced upon the the knuckles

, then

Pwap

Balanced upon the underside of the knuckles

, my palm open skyward.

Spinning the web of a mesmorist to lay your tired greyhound mind to rest.

Notice howl the flare of nostril changes the shape of your lungs’ breath.

/and, nobody cares, especially me. But, I can’t help myself/

As I fall back awake from sleep.

/the intolerable lucidity of insomnia/ wrote Jorges Borges (The Circular Ruins).

The Art of Dreaming authored Carlos Castaneda after years of staying up all night.

The Voice of Knowledge wrote the nagual.

Shadowboxers fighting in the sunshine are oft under

Appreciated.

Parçigal bemoans

Has Comte de Saint-Germain simply imitated Guillaume Postel, who desperately wanted people

desperately wanted people

to believe he was older than he was.

Why had the Maistre gone to Wilhelmsbad to sow dissension

You will change clothes and do as I say. Relent and give in to me.

Through sheer passion and devoted imagination,

I hope to draw you back to me of your volition.
Relent and give in to me.

That low throat voice, that angry sounding breath of desperate need and wanting posturing as powerful loudness.

and wanting posturing as powerful loudness.

So good, sweet thing. How i howl.
desperate need and wanting posturing as powerful loudness.

By my word I will you show your will that I am your mistress and also your mastered.

also your mastered.
I am your mistress and also your mastered.

God|dess to your God|head. I crown you and declare you divine. I show you what I see of your divine effulgence.

I show you what I see of your divine effulgence.

Your head bursts with creation.

My uterus becomes a mystical fire of muse, as well as bemused.
I show you what I see of your divine effulgence.

The Alchemy Feminine: Transmutation of the uterus to womb viz a viz the push of seed in the push for life.

viz a viz the push of seed in the push for life.
viz a viz the push of seed in the push for life.

An empty chalice found, earned, deserving of, and filled through ecstasy of passion coupling with

ecstasy of passion coupling with

romance, attenuates our attunement to become love’s incubator

of the burning flame that smelts away and disposes of impurities.

But without a reason to refine, love can flee and leave the incubator to entomb itself.

entomb itself.
leave the incubator to entomb itself.

A simple supplication to my nape, back, breasts will rekindle me; is taken in as prayer.

is taken in as prayer.

But my Mastery of Ecstasy flows from your oral obeisance,

dearheart. Your enjoyment and desire to

bury your face and lap and eat.

Watch me. Until my eyes narrow,

my smile becomes a pout of lips, my voice goes

deeper and the fry deepens.
will rekindle me; is taken in as prayer.

Let’s un-domesticate before their eyes. You are branded, but I am not.

You are branded, but I am not.

No mark torched my skin and

I usher you to the Maverick underground which

magically exists above ground.

Giggle. I do this for you only, because that is how this gal works:

on a one gent basis (remember punk, it doesn’t have to be you).
You are branded, but I am not.

You ask, “Won’t you ask me my second name? The name you want to call me?”

The name you want to call me?”
The name you want to call me?”

I laugh, “Dummy, that was me that asked you that question in a dream a month ago.”

you that question in a dream a month ago.”
that question in a dream a month ago.”

Your gaze drops as your head lowers.

Bit of a grin gives you away.

Lovely tough guy eh?

Parçigal Waxes for Æ

A man I pass every morning told me, yesterday: you must be a native, dressed like that.

I wore a pallet of grey, black, and brown.

I assumed it was these colors that made him say such a thing.

Then, I saw myself.

A native alien in this strange land,

but four hundred years before now.

An imposter amongst the indigenous.

A civilized lady gone native.

A warrior savage with hunters who fall with her.

And, now, I see that

the Sound is water and sky together.

A point of infinity from whence we cannot distinguish air from liquid.

And, now, dearheart, night became itself.

The moon waxes nearly full,

jumping from one side of the street to the other,

as I snake around two city blocks. And,

even clearer now does the tower

with twenty seven windows crumble before mine eyes.

I built those eleven steps to its front door two decades ago.

Where many may think: what has become of my work?

I think: that old thing is still standing?! Didn’t Æ cry “to dispose of this” as the Philistines yelled at Daniel in a Lion’s den.

But, see,

I know: a lioness does well in a lion’s den.

Confluence of a hostess.

After days of varying sobriquets

[Dimples, Goldilocks, Curly Sue, At the Bat]

Amber Eyes has become my daily moniker to Shelia and Don.

She grabs me, everyday, this intense mid-eighty year old lady.

Everyday, she grasps my face between her palms,

holding my cheeks to keep my head still.

[Serious(ly).]

She pushes her face inches from mine

and stares into my eyes.

As if to make sure that I am who I appear to be.

Are the eyes, in fact, amber?: I swear I cam intuit her asking herself,

before proceeding.

I take a deep breath, knowing what will follow: secrets.

Heavy ones. Ex-drama teachers seem to always have them.

It is 9 a.m. and I still force myself to meet her eyes and listen.

⊙

A man arrives.

Single diners can be sensitive.

Especially when a restaurant hostess says: just one today.

So, I do not say this.

Hi. Good to see you. How can I help?: I say.

He takes my hand as he removes his sunglasses.

He speaks with an accent I cannot identify.

I hear him say: I’d like a date.

Pardon?: I ask. Hand still in his.

I’d like to eat: he says motioning to his mouth.

I smile.

I can help with that. Right this way: I say, leading him to the bar,

hand still held by his.

There is one elder lady at the bar.

He sits five seats away from her.

She collects her things and leaves.

I think nothing of it.

“I love you,” server J. says.

I know: I tease: but what makes you tell me?

You made the racist leave: she says.

Huh?: I am confused.

That was the woman from yesterday. The one who I told you the story about. She took off when she saw him: she says with a big smile.

It was Mother’s day a year ago when this woman revealed her ignorance. Well before I started working here. The story was worse than any I had witnessed in Alabam’.

Point her out next time, so I can tell her we don’t serve her kind here. Many of these old white folks, all look the same to me: I say, not joking.

⊙

I get cut when the rush dies.

I stop by the hardware store to buy a pint. Jane is working. She is my favorite.

You must be done working. It’s good to get off your feet: she smiles.

Aww, you remember me. That means a lot.: I say and mean.

We meet so many people.: she says.

I smile.

Yup. Ya know I worked from a chair, in front of a computer, for many years. Turns out I’m better, happier, on my feet. Plus, I am a bit reclusive. It’s good for me to talk to all these people: I say.

We are all actors. You and I are good ones because we are authentic.: she says.

I freeze at her gravity. I look into her eyes. In silence.

You know me. I appreciate you. I also appreciate your help today.: I say.

She grins.

I exit and feel energy coursing.

Dream of a Watery Cavern

It was a sub terrain keystone cavern of cathedral proportions, carved out from the processes of semi-precious, conductive mineral excavations.

I dreamt I lived underwater, there,

in a little house on the floor of

the Sound,

it was filled with water.

It rained heavy droplets of oxygen,

pattering on the tin roof.

I drop my pen, it slowly floats downwards.

You catch it with your mouth, before it reaches the ground.

Your eyes look up at mine with pride.

I see you shiver.

I silently say: Come and let’s lie down together; you on your back.

I wrap my legs around you, and

slide my thighs and calves against yours,

rubbing limbs like how crickets sing,

until you are warm.

Satisfied sighs bubble from your lips.

You keep shivering well after becoming warm.

Permittivity

The story always flows inside. Now, outside, as well. Like JM says: I see something of myself in everyone; just at this moment of the world.

From the perspective of the Pendulum’s pivot point

From which we are all hanged.

So, I pace out a one-room prowl.

Cursed and blessed our we,

tethered by our high potential of permittivity?

They shalt not treat us unkindly,

but, we may ache further(,)

still.

These indirect aspersions haunt my southern plane,

remaining innominate.

I see you,

nearly combustible from that raw fossil fuel that burns out of your eyes as hot tears.

An enflamed emanation of emotion.

A diesel engine backfiring.

A vice-president shooting his friend in the face.

A murder that occurs on account of how hot it is.

A happy death.

A shadow.

A deal with the devil that you pray to god s/he must hono(u)r.

Push it along.

.:.

~Sometimes I wonder: what is there to write that cannot already be read?

⊙The difference between flowing from and flowing into?

~No. Those states occur, necessarily, in tandem. Like a rope, strung between two cans,

conducts the sounds that the speaker/s curate.

⊙A feedback loop within an open system.

~Why repeat yourself when you can simply read those notes your previous self left to your current self?

⊙On account of how forgetful you knew and know yourself to be?

~Especially when

you have been as long as Æ has been.

⊙Your stasis is my equilibrium.

~I am bespoke you are not beholden.

You are dear to me because you endeared yourself to me by virtue of you being precisely who you are, have been, and will be.

⊙ I think you are too short to push it.

~ You think too much. Plus, I am taller than many things.

⊙I think you talk too much.

~ Then shut me up. You know howl.

.:.

Ariadne Howls to Æ

How is it that, I, Ariadne, she whom gave you the string to trace your way out of this labyrinth, now finds herself strung along by it?

When did the slipped, sleeping pill take æffect?

Am I woke or lucid dreaming

Or sleep walking?

I came

from whence rhythm first flowed and then flew.

I return twice slain.

Yet, still

I return,

by choice,

hunting on my tip toes.

All I want.

I don’t want your money. I want your time: I tell him.

But, time costs…: he smiles, tapering off.

Tastes of Flame

⊙

A fire burns nearby.

My nostrils taste it.

It smells controlled and not wild.

Smells of comfort,

A hearth fire.

Not a trash nor

a tyre pyre,

stinking.

⊙

Next Thing You Know…

No music rights: just homage to a soundtrackscape.

⊙

I am sick like dog: I say in my bestest, thickest Eastern European accent to the chef.

I am too ignorant to have a specific dialect, but the rasp in my voice is too deep to not enjoy, even if it hurts.

Ill since three a.m. The tasty haze of the deliciously grey day suits my fever.

⊙

Seven

a.m. texts go out.

1. The manager working.

I say: Ain’t well. Looking for a cover. If you don’t hear from me again, it means you guys are stuck with me doing my best.

I include exactly zero emoti-cons.

2. The potential covers.

I say: I’m sick. Host this morning?

⊙

No cover expected. Restaurant folk, generally do not rise before the early afternoon, at best, unless they are working. Were situations reversed, I would not come through either.

I sit on the patio and watch the day arrive between seven and eight.

Still and grey.

/Buckle up and endure, now, sweet thing./

I take puffs off my electronic nicotine machine, knowing full well it will help nothing.

My inhaler: I love calling it.

/Cancer for the cure/?

⊙

Ya know I can’t cite the source, but I recall a study saying folks are statistically more likely to prefer being shocked with a low charge, over sitting in a room, alone, in silence for fifteen minutes.

So I put on an album called electro shock blues.

I don’t mind stillness. I can shock myself with my own thoughts.

So who is the glutton for pain? The ones who like a bit of shock-pain because being alone is too painful or the ones who get off on stillness?

/well, hee hee hee hee/

⊙

/Next thing you know/ You’re eat’n hospital food/

⊙

I arrive to work. I am released and sent home after an hour. I think they wanted see if I would show up and try.

It’s good to have reasons to persevere and

over-come:

I say and i mean.

Because I get off on my intent to not let feeling bad make others feel bad or me feel worse.

Seems quite silly to say, as I put it into words now.

I am mostly light and love, but with a little bit of why-don’t-you-go-fuck-yourself for counterbalance.

⊙

Back home.

Bare beneath a grey robe.

Leg warmers over calves and most of my feet.

Earl Gray tea with a bit of cream and vanilla extract.

An American Werewolf in London Faux-Fog: I silently entitle the bootleg concoction, in homage of the traditional London Fog tincture.

⊙

Back on the patio.

The wind chops and dices the waters of

the Sound

into tiny, white-capped waves.

Little peaks of liquid mountains.

⊙

/What/

/What/

/I can hear you/

/I was…/

⊙

/Sing the one about the cat that’s always get’n wet/

Comes down the wires, from my tablet, into my Blue headphones.

I giggle.

Æ fusses at Parçigal

~The number of takes we had to make because this cunt kept pulling the cord out of the headphones? Absurd.

⊙Ab-so-lutely. This cunt asks: can everyone hit metaphysical psychedelia with one pint and a dozen orgasms? Green too. And, does it make sense to say that my third eye forgets to see the good in me? So, it only perceives the manifestations of negative me?

~What have you done for another today? Also, people get snippy about that term

⊙Everything and nothing. It’s word play. I’m a cuntry station, I’m a little bit corny. You know it. But, I could tell you my mythos of what martial arts means.

~Please do.

⊙So, it is fighting as Tao as work as play as flow

As life

Specifically, it refers to energetic exchanges between powerful empaths. Often performed remotely or by proxy. That’s right, by proxy. By, like, virtue of having an army or having realized your doppleganger exists or by energetic control over another. And, even the hypothetical dominator could be unaware of what they are doing. Like watching a boxing match and not understanding that you’re watching a video game where you are player one, controlling the boxer you watch. Unawares.

~Jesus fucking christ…

⊙Everytime with this one?: this cunt giggles.

~Yeah, Cheeses Crust, as you say. You emote too much.

⊙[Howling in laughter] You think, sweet dickhead? Sorry. I have to laugh at myself the same way I have to live with myself. Don’t spook. And, don’t feel bad for me. You’re here by choice.

~Well, you are incorrigible, but not insufferable. Kind of exasperatingly delicious.

⊙Only cuz you are old enough to feel justified in your grumpiness.

~Your ball comes across my fence, I keep it.

⊙Oh puh’lease, “it was [your] stage” when you were a young man, too. Fuck ewe. Pleas, I am so wet.

~Cheesy cracker super snacker. Don’t you think of anything but sex?

⊙Paul F. Thompkins as Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber on Comedy Bang Band & Todd Rundgren’s track, the one before (You Don’t Have to) Camp Around off of A Wizard, a True Star. And, no. I don’t. Not these days.

Collected Strands

Restless a.m.

I

Ayes running through my mind’s eyes like little cottontails scrambling into the brambles.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Robins bobbling around for worms.

The only animals appearing sleepy are tethered. A dog walking a human.

⊙

A clot of hair collects about a nail head that is pounded into the railing.

I suppose it is mine.

Strands tugged a’loose like feathers, after the daily ritual of:

arrive home, sit outside, and, let the waves down.

Like little feathers lost only to be reassembled into

a new configuration.

A merkin for the metal.