Looking up at the sky, he tripped and fell.
Plummeting down the dried up well.
Twelve feet down.
Dark, dank, stinking.
Now, twice a day he looks up
To see
The noonday sun
And the midnight moon.
And, when it’s lit down there it’s bright.
Otherwise, very dark.
Sacrifice.
Sanctimony.
Symphony.
Sanctuary.
Sacred.
Scared.
Sacrilegious.
Religious.
A strangely swapping of places of an I and E,
at the maddened haberdasher’s tea party.
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.
He laughs.
“You think I don’t give you a straight answer, you should talk to these statisticians. They never give you a direct statement.”
I laugh.
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.
<giggle, blush>
~
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?
Phædo
Swan Song
Pædrus
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 cluster.
A community built from playing with a bit of hash- -tag
you’re it.
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.
I remember you. Yeah, you. You stood next to the burning acacia bush. Hard to forget.
Whilst the girl stood before the podium, clutching her tome, a man held her tresses with scissors poised. A confusing ancient image.
Nowhere else is where she’d rather be. Snip the dead ends and make the sheep shorn.
Ewe.
Ewer.
Hopelessly old to be so young.
And, in dreams did I endlessly empty the carafe into the stone basin. Naked and milky white liquid ever-flowing. My eyes trained upon a single stone upon the ground. A star, a wizard wearing a vizard.
Two pillars of sycamores framing me.
I heard your caw.
I answered with mine own trill. Basil tinted and chai scented.
The folk of Zakopane take for granted the mountain air surrounding. Snug in chalets insulated against the Kasprowy Wierch. While opening the parcel, I confuse feeling wretched with the sensation of a heart being wratched. And, all at the sight of the Slovak postmark.
Because it makes me recall the not exactly cream cheese they call qvark. White cheese paired with fruit and a terrace. A simple ripe raspberry atop to boot.
Prattle and pitter patter.
Refreshed at being carefree sans carelessness.
You are comfortable, he says.
No. You just find me cozy.
And, they threw out all the words I firmly etched with his letterpress.
Into the depths, off cliffs of Tatras,
The Fool forever falls.
He rolled over, having fallen fully asleep.
My cape slipping away.
I roll over and drape myself across his back.
The refrigerator starts humming.
I tap out a rhythm with my right foot’s big toe.
The tap comes easily so I’m not dreaming.
Hyper lucidity,
yet, the bed remains empty.
~
She smiles. She shakes her head.
She admits. She misses him.
You fell upon me like a gentle rain.
I struck you as pelting hail.
A heated fitt.
A meteorological event.
A wet tango befell from atmospheric interactions.
Intention of being in tension.
Umbrella abandoning abandon.
Automatic writing is the
Art of transcryption performed through the
Act of transcribing made manifest by the
Hand of a scribe.
A dialectical tribal diatribe.
WrittenCasey 