Other of the between

At times, certain bits of shadows overwhelm and attempt to call you back.

Home to the Pitt of Settes.

Because shadows fear the light.

At times, certain rays of sunlight overwhelm and attempt to call you back.

Home to the Haven of Heavens.

Because sunshine fears night’s shade.

Their conspiracy is to whisper, “I am better than the other.”

Begging you to pronounce an opinion.

But, you are neither one more so than another.

Just the knot bisecting the lifespan of a life’stime.

So laugh.

Ignore.

Simply Be.

coal burning

Suddenly, it stinks of coal burning.

They still burn it in homes here.

What derives from the atmosphere of an old coke town to our nostrils’ mounds.

The previous day spent, cutting meat and choking cheese.

Over eight hours, not a single slicing/chipping machine cleaned,

except by me, with a wet rag. Only later shown where the sanitizer station resides.

Dirty, but pure.

The roast beef rack, must be opened over a sink.

To let the blood drain.

For some, too red.

For others? Not enough.

Longhorn cheese and the ground up goat body of a head cheese.

Dirty, but desired. Harsh.

Everything, but the bones and put into a gelatinous mold.

A restauranteur calls me three weeks late.

I ask, “Do you make your pasta fresh?”

Crown fitted.

Gums cauterized and still bleeding.

Blind fury.

And, I keep waiting for the blind man running through the light of the night

With an answer in his hands.

I keep looking for that river of sight, so I can understand

Why.

Sitting in the sun.

So many people. Overstimulation.

Hide away.

Sit in the sun. In the quiet.

Safe, yet unable to say, “yes.”

“That would not be my preference. For tomorrow there will be a new, unknown crowd.”

A young nanny walks down the back street with two youngsters.

A girl on bike, smiling, with hair flying and shining in the early evening’s setting sun.

The boy trips. His face contorts into an almost sob.

The nanny did not catch him, but catches his expression.

Her face contorts alongside his; but, she begins to giggle, ridiculously.

He follows her lead.

A cry averted into a laugh of “I cannot believe that just happened.”

Impeccable.

faced as a child

Remember the faces of the parents who birthed you, beautiful or ugly?

Or, unknown.

How they looked at your earliest memory.

Recall your face as a child,

As you saw yourself versus how you now recall yourself

To Be

The imaginary worlds you could create.

Edifice

of Joy.

How your laugh howled with no concern for volume.

How you could cry freely when it hurt,

When you were treated poorly.

All the promises you made to your future.

All the things you swore you would never do.

The jobs you would have.

That thriving trove.

Oh, and all those places you would go.

Up and over where the sidewalk would end.

The edge of the world.

The thrill of the steep cliff over which you would fall off when sky met horizon.

There would be dragons to slay, or better yet, befriend.

The letters that gave you trouble as you learned to scrawl.

S’s, proper formed but backwards facing.

The pictures you proudly drew poorly.

The smell of a new-to-you, second hand book. A cheap, new sketch pad.

The sibling you craved but never had; the one you had and came to adore.

Recall falling apart frequently and immediately remaking yourself.

Tantrums displayed or bottled up.

Therein is the eternal beauty of the fleeting.

And, it is yours. No one else’s.

A child, still, in these hills, still.

Anytime you are thirsty, return here.

my hair predicts

“Everything went pear~shaped,” he confesses.

Oh my, no wonder your food comes out in messes.

The sudden rain gusts down in slants,

My tresses go straight into ringlets.

My hair predicts humidity, precipitation, and barometric pressure better than any meteorologist.

I leave the house with it styled one way to return, from a walk, with a totally different look.

It is the Scotch-Irish of my bloodline.

Bearing more neanderthal DNA than the majority.

Whatever that may mean.

Squeak, the cat, goes exorcist onto the door’s screen,

Startling me by meeting mine eyes with hers at an unnatural, five foot level.

Paws splayed in strange ways.

Twenty minutes later, she is asleep in her bubble wrap insulated, amazon box.

What a joy to see that what I perceive as trash becomes a highly prized toy.

cheeky biscuits

A clean kitchen.

An extra tablespoon of further chilled, unsalted butter,

An extra splash of buttermilk.

No eggs required.

Unbleached, fine flour.

Working to perfect the finicky.

A smaller cutter,

A quarter inch thicker batter to cut.

Perfecting.

Over and over

Incremental changes.

Convection

10 dollars yields 48 rounds.

I am in love.

A habit.

do not post this

Here's your goat head on a post.

Ewe wanted this attention, no?

And, should they challenge you again, their head wilt be piked by these unknowing

hands of mine.

No pride found in these lies

Of yours

Do you not find it tiresome trying to sound so pretty?

Old pfotos with pfilters, clinging with cutesy lighting.

Let go.

Why do you write to appeal when you could write things a’pealing (like bells ringing) to the attention of those whose attention you find so desiresome?

Herein is the hag birthed.

Do not make them desire who you used to be.

Make them desire being seen for whom they are.

Imperfect.

Nothing more erotic than this.

They care not about you, but about howl you make them feel.

Phantasy is lovely but be~cums quite unbecoming

in actual sun.

The tired and haggard seeking untrue beauty that is, in reality, quite unseemingly.

Lies and tired eyes.

Don’t worry; just bounce.

Know~one hates you more than ewe hate yourself.

Why care?

Reflection of their face to themselves and to their eyes, reduces them to knees.

Which you have never seen when you get on yours.

Remain true, because you are exhasting.

The exotic is often insincere.

And, if some-1 tells you it is unflattering to speak like this?

Expect to find another faux goat head staked.

Pria~puss is just a laugh.

Who tells you that you wilt embarrass yourself,

Bye, speaking thusly?

Persephone is undeniable.

She cannot tell you how ewe feels but she do.

piquet

He moves slowly.

Brow wiped against triceps brachii.

Dewy and salty. Deep inhalation.

Restrained.

Wild hairs blowing in the humid breeze.

Turned inward. Toes pointing towards the other foot’s toes.

Face downwards, yet eyes casting up.

Observant. Quiet spoken.

A grin never breaking into a toothy smile.

Piqued.

Piquet.

hushed shuffles

Things move behind me in hushed shuffles of productivity.

Me equals silent and still, unbending, steely weal.

A pinch of sadness found in frustration.

The loneliness of a crowd.

The wrought iron twists.

Two.

Eighteen dancing slips slide behind a single veil.

Nothing from nothing yielding some~things,

yet, remain unspeaking.

Starshine seen that died already.

And, I feel your shame.

Pride comingling with this being.

I miss my Funk and Wagners more than necessary.

Divination by dictionary.

Play things never put away.

Immaturity extracts blood from the stone.

Holed up in worry so much so a hole in the head could incorrectly~seem to be more becoming.

Faded and dusty.

I miss the mark.

Even my writing hardly starts.

Cold heat unseemly, waiting for skin to begin slowly peeling.

Too dark to share; too scared to hear.

Intimidation of trying shines in thine eyes.

a place with seasons

The heat and humidity following the vernal equinox bleeds the ink of my pen and smears the stains of my writing on the page.

The crocus thrive with steadfast confidence.

The daffodils explode perfectly.

The primrose remain fussy divas.

The rose bushes work hard despite struggling.

A place with seasons shocks me.

Just as my skin adjusted to the same color of the lily white opalescent tenor of the frequent snow,

The spring sun shocks my flesh into the rosy red of a proper sunburn.

No sooner has spring spring before I realize I must prepare my soul for the not too distant summer.

My scratchmade buttermilk biscuits finally learn to rise.

A new oven; a new season.

A novel sense of urgency.

It is the season to become.

New

As one dies, so is one reborn.

With an eye on the sparrow and his one eye on mine.

And, the singers of hymns look at me sideways, and the modernity looks on with eyes rolled at me.

Stranded between two sonars.

But, know what?

I sing because I am happy,

I sing because I’m glad.

I sing out of key, yet, wholeheartedly.

Because I am free and here is spring.

Hesse and Mann

Therein does the majesty of existence fill my heart.

Words re read.

Albums relistened to before the w/hole becomes the sink/ing w/hole.

Words whispered as memories forgotten but felt like meteoric impact

striking land surface.

We are many.

They are few.

And, you likely misunderstood.

Recollection of the woods of a mill creek coupled with a salmon’s ladder,

no longer used.

Clever fish.

Not you; but, but who I used

to be.

A joke named Syd Arthur reduces me to my knees.

Hesse and Mann.

And, me with determined purposelessness.

open secrets

Eco, Umberto…

A whisper from these lips confesses an open secret:

There is no secret.

All the mystery schools and Eleusinian plays:

Yes, no

their secret is not concealed.

Mythos.

The magic is that you assume it is hidden.

When seemingly unobtainable,

you wilt become willing to work for it.

But, what ritual teaches, you already know.

If you put in the work, your mind will show

Ewe.

But, solitary work lacks the energy of community.

Emergence of thinking in tandem.

A breath practice practiced alone is not the same as the communal.

I think therefore I am is now becoming:

I am seen therefore I am.

I shall believe it when I see it?

No dear.

You wilt see it when you believe.

This is the basic magic.

Simple reading shares,

what ritual prepares

to gift

Inquiring minds.

Worry less over initiation because they’d be lucky to have your machination.

being what is eaten

Speak with your face and fingertips.

Louder than words uttered.

Understated is better than stated.

And, one can tell many things about another one, by how they treat a vegetable.

The way they wash, the knife they choose and how they slice.

Dice thrown; and, the dye cast.

What music shall I choose to play for this death.

Even vegans must confess life feeds on life feeds on life.

Does that empurpled onion reduce you

To tears?

A seasoned cast iron skillet does not need soap.

Brushed with bristles.

Oiled up and then left alone.

A serrated saw to slice tomatoes to preserve their fleshly consistency.

A fat, straight blade to make onions pay for arrogance.

Slapping herbs in the face, to conjure the aromatic gift.

The coolness of cilantro is a hipster’s voice you desire to hear but also wish would shush.

Tasting whilst you bring demise because you wilt not be caught up in surprise

At what you create.

And, should you tell me, “I do not cook.”

I wonder, “Why does fear of failure have you so shook?”

Prostrate before a pinch of sea salt.

The kindly courtesan whom doth correct all.

Pray for the favorable countenance of a full garlic clove.

This is enclave.

Three slightly beaten eggs.

Heavy syrup and pecans.

Three slightly beaten eggs.

A pie baked in lieu

An attempt to explain

all of the most basic ceremony and

rites of common society which I have naught

Experienced.

Imperfect kindness tempered with ignorance and an introverted nature.

Making myne own misunderstood rituals of Devotion.

Lacking. Paltry offering.

What I hold not in emotional availability, I make up with myne ability to stare at the sky and dream.

Appealing to others until experienced for a longer term.

A mystic certainly understands classical romanticism;

but, of the contemporary meaning of romantic, often feeling inadequate and misunderstood.

Leaving everything on the field whilst appearing like Æ did not come to play the Game at all.

Adrift in timelessness without the ability to connect in the contemporary.

Moving through time backwards to understand at death

the joy that others missed while they experienced

It.

Heavy bursts of ecstasies that leave others lacking It in the in~between.

A day spent on the back porch

Spring is truly here.

By myne own watch do I so declare.

A day spent on the back porch secures this truth more accurately than these poor weathermen trying to read the tea leaves to predict things, often incorrectly.

Prophecy is not the equivalent of a best guess.

Yet, I respect their need to speak in ways deterministic.

They have a job; I have the simple luxury of looking into the picturesque.

(At least for another couple of weeks.)

Cottonwood seeds flutter like dandelions wished upon.

The three baby squirrels left the carriage house for the first time; and, explored the oak tree.

I watched the parents build their den drey weeks ago.

The birds sing in ecstatic glee.

Perching, en masse, preening, showing off for potential mates.

Being new here, I do not know their avian names; but, upon reflection, that seems right proper.

Even the insects cannot resist landing on me in joyous greeting.

I blow them off with a gentle breeze from my lungs.

The songs and chitters fill the sky and every bit of the ether between.

The Chinese Tallow tree drops its cotton~like downy seed.

It is not truly that so-called tree; but, being new here, it is the closest descriptive name that I know to call thee.

Upon reflection, that seems rite and proper.

Because to see does not truly require name~calling.

The pitch reaches its peak at four, before mellowing as the sun approaches the horizon’s seam.

Two young boys play in the alleyway. One on a bike chasing the other who is on foot.

They are twins. They swap places frequently.

I could show you well framed pictures; I could make this description more becoming and literarily.

But, who cares when s/he is enjoying the first day of spring.

It is finally warm; and, as I thaw, I understand that I knew not how frozen I had become.

cheap jokes

Like how clothes made from cheesecloth may suit one’s fancy, thereby, I reserve the right to mispell words in ways that pleas me.

Intentional irony. Is that a definition of satire?

<my eyelashes innocuously and stupidly batting>

The brief rain smelt of Alabama in its kindest springtime offerings.

The weather done did my hair.

Humidity curling my tresses like wrapping ribbon struck and pulled against a scissors edge.

Popping curls like my ass and cunt twerking.

Locking into this collision course.

And, in this northeastern dry climate, the slightest bit of humidity becomes me and makes me brazen enough to speak á la a way uncummly.

The intentional rye~bald, of an insecure man’s combover.

I come on too strong when I feel too unsmall.

A tiny mouse can tower. But, when other vermin shrink,

I over think

my place.

And, you kunst get my joke without finding it to be funny.

Because, rite now that is as good as an hysterically laughing crack~owl.

mystical metaphysics

Such a rage boils my blood whilst listening to the ignorant ones.

My knee jerks to curse and wish them failure;

but, what I exude wilt come back three times as strongly to me. So, I don’t.

The golden ratio of a basic rule.

A simple, plastic bag billows, impaled on a tree.

An ugly reminder I live well inside the veil,

keeping one foot Here and one foot There.

Mystical metaphysics.

Everything smells of sautéed shiitake when I feel this way.

Entropy has become this country.

Voting is not a privilege;

It is a right.

56 years.

And Mister GOP, if you say “politics is a zero sum game” before the highest court of this land,

then you concede that leadership is not your forte.

Go, Jim Crow, we are sick of your antiquated quagmire.

Such attempts to disenfranchise will surely backfire.

The oppressed are motivated.

Your conservative base becomes lazy when inconvenienced.

Reaping what you’ve sown wilt be your future problem.

As they say in fencing:

We are en garde.

a stretch before the rebeginning

My cauldron bubbles in its boil. A sacred prayer to the dead man chicken in my pot.

And, the last three years have been such an eternity that any song both brings me to proudly stand on toes with limbs extending past 90° to Earth’s curvature.

Whilst also reducing me to tears without my understanding why.

The legacy and curse of a dancer’s ballet-cy.

Words invented while subterfuge may whisper context.

Lost on most of my friendly vigilantes.

And whilst a boiling cauldron sounds dramatic, it is nothing more than a beautiful breast in spices, the most important of which being garlic.

Whole cloves and bay leaves.

Magic so simply esoteric that many mistake it for being erudite.

Just read, sweet things.

Nothing more simplistically

Put

Into a proper place.

And, the uninitiated may unabashedly speak volumes whilst claiming the Heyoka status.

When did admitting yourself to be The Fool become so unseemingly.

Chicken nervously almost cooked and begging shredding.

And the act requires meticulous tediousness.

Yet, if you want to consume a sacrificed carcass should anything less be expected?

And I miss the Jamaican aroma. Unallowed here. But, the rite of alcohol pales.

The breast resists shredding.

Respect for sacrifice;

so I rest

before the rebeginning

perhaps you cannot see; but they shine brightly to me

The clouds here move quickly tonight.

The stars, they move more slowly. Less capriciously.

To the tock and tick of their own steadfast Pendulum.

I watch the cover of both refuse to be stagnant.

I count their changes by the beating of myne heart.

The truest metronome.

The clock I carry with me until evermore;

and, should it cease?

Well, I would surely be the last one to know.