A slight before the wearied eyed is oft conflated as a sight for sore eyes.
Too tired to cite sources.
A site in sorry shape.
A slight before the wearied eyed is oft conflated as a sight for sore eyes.
Too tired to cite sources.
A site in sorry shape.
Overheard, today, in a doctor’s waiting room.
A couple, probably in their late 80’s, check in. They are feeble and hunched over and very grey. They are given new patient forms.
The wife sits down, looks at the form, and yells at her husband who’s still ambling away from the counter. “Harold! What gender do you identify with today?”
“WHAT?!,” yells hard of hearing Harold.
“What gender pronoun do you want them to use? I’ll write it in all caps!”
“What? Oh, gender. Does it say ‘sex’?” Harold yells.
“No! If it did I’d just write ‘yes’.”
<I have lost it at this point. The intake nurses have lost it. The nurse about to call my name is just smiling and watching.>
Laughing. I tell her, “you made my day.”
“My mother taught me that. Anytime they ask about ‘sex,’ you write ‘yes.’ “
I wanted to share the wisdom.
Sometimes, I read you backwards.
Starting with the final paragraph and stalking you back,
coda to prelude.
Because, I’m less interested in how you end up and more interested in
how you found yourself at your present conclusion.
I want to, again, layer on clothes so that I may take my time undressing in front of you.
I want to watch your eyes.
I will sing like the birds enjoying spring outside my open, bedroom window.
And, my face flushes and turns so scarlet that I could swear I am fevered.
I am not, but I swear under my breath, anyways.
I see all those slant rhymes you presume pass most by.
The repeated use of an odd word.
A woman giggles while noting she had to look it up.
I giggle, because the same woman said the same thing a year ago. The last time you spoke the Word.
I recall you as easily as ad jingles and pop songs.
It becomes embarrassing, but I’m not ashamed despite not being proud.
It smells like when ewe made toast.
And the scent memory, turns me into an overflowing ewer.
Catalyzing another metaphysical catharsis.
Hot tears spill. Oil slicks slipping down geological formations of cheekbones.
I look sad but I don’t feel as such.
I feel rapt.
I simply feel.
Make your libations and lower your vessel that I may fill it, vassal.
The govenor of the state of New York was recently asked to relay declarative sentences regarding the data analysis his scientific experts yielded unto him.
“You think I don’t give you a straight answer, you should talk to these statisticians. They never give you a direct statement.”
I message the statistician I know all too well.
Telling him the statements.
He responds, “There is a possibility he’s right.”
Today, I reread myself from twelve days ago.
She stands and windmills her arms in circles sixty times.
She bends her neck and it cracks.
“There it is,” she says, thinking, ‘Fuck. Taco Bell would be good.’
I guess I was exercising/exorcising.
Today, I reach out to aforementioned statistician, writing,
~I have a shuffled deck of seventy eight cards, I draw one at random. I replace it into the deck and reshuffle. I draw a card at random. What is the likelihood that I draw the same card?
⊙One in seventy-eight. The probability is completely dependent on the second card matching the first.
~What is the likelihood that I drew a different card each time?
⊙P(no match) = 1 – P(match). 77/78.
So, she scribbled out the math in crude ways. Slowly, by hand. As she had as a child.
<never turning in a math test before the buzzer sounded>
Well, fuck the ten of swords, she giggles.
I reread myself from April 26
Some facts are hard; some truths are soft.
Make your own Kierkegaardian leap. I didn’t bring a parachute for me, let alone you. But, would it be okay if I fell next to you?
And, No-One wilt sculpt you a wrinkled, time weathered, mountain from a molehill better than Æ.
And the reason, P.
Yesterday I asked my sister for her good Word and wrote the following:
The –thorpe was octo-. Eight little houses in the hamlet.
A community built from playing with a bit of hash- -tag
The difference between mitigation and litigation.
Right, exactly, now, the sun insists through snapped shut blinds.
Where the chord connects on the à gauche, median, and dexter sides through little loops knotted about each slat
I see my handwriting spell it out for me:
The heyoka becomes a narcissist’s tulpa.
Two of them were here; and, then, they weren’t.
And, she never met either but she knew them both.
It made her feel sad; it made her efforts feel useless.
And, both feelings felt indulgent, so she resented the emotions, to boot.
“That’s really irksome.”
“That I’m unafraid to say, ‘I don’t know’ ? “
“You could speculate.”
“But, if I did not tell you, ‘I don’t know’ before speculating then I devalue the currency of my words at large.”
In American English, the most beloved sentence laid upon ears may be, “That’s my baby.”
The refrigerator moans through its vocal coils like a horny impotent cooling out.
It boils down to a teleological desire to manipulate matter.
I’m not your adversary; I just enjoy being adversarial.
Call me ‘the devil’s advocate,’
I got no-name to guess.
All night, I sawed the log. Twelve hours of non-lucid dreams.
I open my front door and a little, mangey, wiry grey Australian shepherd pretty much falls inside my flat. S/he had been curled up as close to my door as possible, sheltering from some storm. Waking up when the door opens, the dog crawls inside, jumps up on my futon, shows me its belly, and gives me those eyes: Please. I’m not going back out there.
Then, I woke up.
I guess it’s the pup’s turn to soujurn in my dreamland heaven, the Landgrave I build and to which I retire.
Must be my turn to tend the fields.
I wonder how long the poor fellow covered the herd while this shepherd slept.
Pulling in deep to hear him say, half asleep, “I can do it.”
Can you do it on command; can you do it without hands?
I mumble, “give me a modicum of good sleep.”
Head nuzzling under his chin.
“Let’s doze. The world wants me awake; but, I’m not ready to face it.”
A hand moves to rest on an ass.
I hear a man’s bicycle’s spokes whir by my open window and he hums beautifully as he rides.
I slip from the bed’s cocoon, to part and peak through my blinds’ slats; but, he’s already breezed by.
The neighbors putter in the shared garden, a new bird feeder being installed.
I get dressed to do an investigative prowl around my block before coffee.
As I walk, I understand that I am created by intersections of energetic threads being woven together by a macro loom.
And, I remember: if you fold shoulders and make yourself small, mija, that is how people will treat you.
And, a voice in a void is worthless without resonance. Show me your panacea, boy.
Echoes of Sette in cassettes.
Pure white noise is the sound of a resonant channel chattering in the background. Before we had silicon and screens, they used the rubbing of crickets’ legs, the guttural thrust of a frog’s croak. Working like a little whirling dervish screw driving its way into foreheads.
And, I return. And, the caffeine calls. And, my pour over waits for the water to boil.
The perimeter of the aroma of my paramour, lurks and stalks.
Paramount because it is tantamount to something unseemly and paranormal.
But, no day ends; tomorrow begins and no bodies say anything.
Sentinel surveillance of the syndromic and the asymptomatic.
A coalesence of convalescence conjuncting with a tyranny of averages.
Handmade beds; and, piles of filled in journals.
The area below a curve
a line above a
Gating shepards watching Anafortas exploiting the incomplete mantle of Parcival’s effulgence.
The ecstatic trauma of successfully arching the black swan of your black sheep dreams is becoming the dog chasing a squirrel. Knowing not what to do if it actually caught it.
And, she called out to her gods and demons, saying, “wherefore and to what end?
The sun begins to rise and, still, you refuse me the password to sleep.”
Strange, dynamic current/s; accusations of dereliction of duties.
So, they transcend from surge to suppression.
Chai spice fragrance in one room; lavender and shæ in the other.
Dragon breath vapours pour forth from the room where a steaming bath is drawn.
And, food is around the wall; but, every bite is like you chewing ice next to me.
But, they don’t die; and, now, they have to live with it.
Just like the sporting, courting gentleman he was, she was informed of his intentions by writing. Epistles held in chester drawers reserved for intimates.
My temples tighten.
We said the same time. Echoing.
Impetus being found without being found impetuous.
Can we go dancing?
The living room would be fine.
Kissed hard last we spoke.
One felled; the other asleep fell.
The dispensation of the enraptured.
She sticks around fifty four years to see the Black Sun when it reappears. The scandalous subterfuge of a subtle sabotage. A gorgeous space virus that more than a few shall remember.
Rope a dope, dummy.
Keep an eye out for the advantage of my left uppercut.
Cassius Clay was hit more than Charles Sonny Liston.
These days, the howls come from a new place. A softer place. A place which usually silences itself to allow other parts to howl. But, now, they fall silent; and, this strange drone of a low, long howl emerges. No longer abrupt outbursts.
So, she put her left hand in her mouth, pushes it down, past her throat, and pulls out all of her ugliness from deep inside. Just to give it a long, hard once over. She’ll have to consume it again and work it through her system eventually. It’s not the sort of rubbish one casually discards.
And, she wears a dress of rain while waiting for the world to collectively feel comfortable and stop holding its breath.
“Sitting still is fatal. All succumb to being sedentary.”
He rolls his eyes, again.
“Bitch, I’m inexorable. I’m outrageous. Gem and the Holograms style. Pull out those old safety pins,” she tells him.
There’s an outburst of birds chittering on the otherside of her windowsill.
“They want peanuts. Unsalted,” she says motioning to the miniature flock.
“I will destroy you,” he offers.
“I know. I know. You tell me that every night.”
“Yeah, but I mean it this time.”
“I know. You’re hopelessly ruthless. I believed you the first twelve times you told me. Come to slay me or save me from the other wolf?”
“You calling me ‘Peter’?”
“No, I’m calling you a boy in wolf clothing.”
First, she assisted in erecting the ædificium of the flora’s subterranean root structure.
Learning from watching the trees talking through their bizarre vasculature, aided by moldy interpreters, the lady discovered the secrets of the adytum of Soloman’s Temple. They inscribed themselves in the Temple’s very dimensions.
Compliment to the unsated volume of the Petaled Shrine of the Pearl.
Then, Bloddeuedd asked her starling to stalk Merlin’s peregrine, leading to his Cliffside~House.
“What do you wish me to grant you for finding me¿” asks Merlin, charmed.
“The power to grant myself my own wishes,” she replies.
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.”
“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, 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.
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.
“Let them bake cake.”
“All hail the queen bitch.”
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.
Just a moment to bemoan feeling alone.
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.