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.

thoust draws thine

You want to see my shape cut?

I care not.

Can you tie a proper knot?

Does your patience stand the test

of sailors hoisting masts?

When this I don, it is my pleasure.

Yours, sir? It matters naught.

I know it pleases thee, such from this do I draw your reaction.

Lie down. Lay down. Bow at my altar.

For what I do is for me and not for thee.

Cowards of necessity cower in my wake;

and, from me, you produce not a single shake.

Make yourself and leave me to be what Æ wilt.

My impatience becomes me and makes the Fool of thee.

Know your place because I find mine sans shame.

Hush.

You speak of power; but, from me thoust draws thine.

hot-rolled steel

The difference between assume and presume.

What is the difference between you and me?

What you think you want is an excuse to relieve yourself of duty to self.

To achieve is a perpetul disability.

To be is the zenith.

And, I thank some unnamed God that I dream.

The Skellig formations whisper to me in the form of three single leaves rustling.

Dragging across coarse cement. Reminiscent.

I miss the Olympics, those ranging mountains.

I could kiss clean streets now that I have none.

Entreaty.

I miss being the small fish in the massive sea.

I feel too big presently.

A line of cans rails the brick wall, confirming it to be so.

Trying to pass another meaningless test.

Drilling until perfection be found.

Reaching the offer I do not wish to take.

On a train, the quiet car, where I truly wish to be.

In silence and rocked by steel rails until fastly asleep.

And, a rabbit makes its home beneath this porch and me.

I have sprinkled bread crumbs when I should have spread my spinach.

Make your hutch and hop around me.

A plea.

The wind blows open the door.

I say, “thank you, but what for?”

survived

“Oh my, my, what of the raven? Is it you?” I am asked.

“No. I am quite simply not into carrion,” is my reply.

“What are you in to?”

“Being the last bird to leave before the storm; then, being the first to return.”

“An ibis?”

“Yes, which is also a Phœnix.”

“How so?”

“A Phœnix appears to rebirth itself from a flame’s ashes; but, it is illusion. Everyone fled the mælstorm. I never died, you left; and, upon your return, you assumed me to be reborn.”

“The truth is then?”

“I neither left nor died. I simply survived.”

Say hello just as you once waved goodbye.

silence’s blame

I respect Silence’s blame; I miss thee just the same.

From me does the Stillness urge a disquieting benevolence coalescing into

this grievance.

The plasmatic burst of a coronal flare turns to a sickly flame’s green glare.

The Universe wrought itself from naught and therein do we return,

Unto a new Form.

A Thing will fall apart only to be remade into a newly fitted part.

The queen of Magnets insists on polarity because Friction is necessary.

Heresy and hearsay do not become me. Yet are they my Necessity.

Shed the veil and show thine face.

I wilt hold your place.

So tumble and flail. Howl like a feral dog into your Fog.

This peculiar part is ever of less Proportion to the W/hole.

And, the peace thou dost seek, upon being found, will be abhorred.

Until evermore.

An unapology using pre-postmodern memes

A millenial tried to explain to me why emojis and gifs of memes are a better means of communicating.

“Talking by phone is a drag.”

“Speaking face to face, even precovid, nearly an impossibility.”

“And, using the written word? So tedious and time consuming.”

(If bored just scroll through the images below.)

~

As a gal born in the early 1980’s, I often feel stranded between two realities.

Yes, I always used a word processor to do my school essays.

Yes, I had to go to a library in early days to gain access to said PC.

No, I did not grow up with the internet until my early teens.

No, I have not always had a cell phone. Not until college. And, I quite enjoyed my dumb phone.

Yes, I may be a soul more befitting of the 1920’s.

Immediate conclusion?

Screw your shortcuts.

Screw your sitting before a tv and watching movies, then snipping these to create a gif to speak for thee.

Screw your desire to make a digital smiley face to show me that you are happy.

Then, I recalled all the symbols I painstakingly learned to express things antiquatedly.

Do millenials actually recall the origin of the word “meme“¿

Here is my attempt to show that meaning to thee.

An eggplant is not a clever reference to sexuality. At least, not to me.

Antiquated symbols offer an erudite aesthetic beauty not found in millennial symbology.

~

I can describe the entire sky, at any moment in time, with the following.

I wager the people whom created these were chastised by their contemporaries, for staring at the sky too long. Much like I accused thee of staring at the tv.

But, yeah, I find these much more charming.

Of biology and chemistry, the simplistic can be communicated thusly.

Of the self referential nature of the most basic of mathemagics, perhaps, we may express the most, irrespective of the language through which we spoke.

Of philosophical logic, holy howl…I feel the need to apologize before even getting started.

(But, before we begin, consider then…

“Nothing matters” is another way to say “everything is meaningful”.
Negation elimination states that anything follows from an absurdity.

What if the proposition, “nothing matters” is meaningful? Logical absurdity.

You have proved meaning by saying “nothing means anything”.

Undercutting the nihilistic philosophy.)

Whether the weather? Yes, symbols can speak to that.

You take a prescription? Well, here is how they speak about you, behind the counter.

While we could get into calculus and statistics, we shall keep it simple, stupid and talk of basic physics.

Yes, many symbols seem the same; but, remember, context is everything.

be

Picayune and jejune.

Still your tongue, little one.

I take notes of that which you do not say.

Do as thou wilt and keep silent about what might may.

Be.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

A finger over closed lips subverts avoidable mishaps.

The first step to alchemize gold is not brash.

It is bold.

the strange peach’s stone

A faint light briefly illuminates the window across the way. It makes me wonder what changed interiorly.

A downy softness surrounds me today.

Time moves slowly.

Suddenly surprised, hearing geese honking. Flying higher than the lowly, snowy cloud cover.

A silly goose once puffed up and squared off with me, during an unintentional path crossing.

I backed down quickly, alarmed at how alarming it found me to be.

It makes me wonder of the owl who used to visit and play with me.

Twice swooping and snatching at the breezy, long ties of my sleeveless shirt.

It subsequently perched on the lowest limb of the nearest tree.

A father and his child came to see and commented of its beauty.

I stared at them, speechless and dumbstruck, still and in awe of what had just happened to me.

The great bird was tufted. Signifying it may have originated from the underworld.

What spirit concerns itself with me?

Here it comes: the strange peach’s stone of a memory, sitting in my stomach

heavily.

So, I write backwards in Hebrew, which feels like forward to me; and, whilst I know the characters, I know not that which they mean.

Pure, pleasing automatic writing before I play.

a medicant

My patron saint must be Augustine for I have nothing to give but The(se) Confessions.

Tolle lege.

When you find meaning in everything, everything suddenly becomes overwhelming.

Sannyasi is a medicant whose anagram corresponds to [dictamen].

Dictamen en Español/a equals opinion. In English, it is a pronouncement. Rule.

The plural? Dictamina.

I am æ’scribe, a vessel, a medium.

My sacred Contract.

Rubbing this pebble until it becomes a philosopher’s stone. The Great Work.

The rite of writing.

I know the goat, Baphomet, but only casually; yet, s/he asks me to call they/them by another sobriquet.

S/he asks me to play my favorite game, inquiring “What is the difference between

[CAVALRY] and [CALVARY]?”

“How very cavalier this question is which Y’all ask of this cavalier servente.”

They laugh; because, I have responded with a statement asking them to acknowledge the difference between two very different things.

“Parçigal sounds presumptuously pretentious,” they reply.

“She has not sounded at all, in ages, seemingly.”

what of we?

Flowing like the blood of Abraham of Worms.

“To serve and fear,” he promised, along with gifting ten gold florins.

Sounds like the needed Judas.

Without villains, how do we know that ostensible hero?

What of we who relate to the in-between called ‘antiheroes’?

An alarm screams.

No siren, but a klaxon doppleganging.

To bind the demons, must you first summon them?

An odd gambit given that you may not have had their attention initially.

Diamonds of snow falling, whilst I read the broken man whose sobriquet is Lewis Carroll.

Here do I call him out by his birth name: Charles Lutwidge Dodgson.

And, any fan knows Alice’s hair was brown, not blonde.

An erudite form of witness protection.