solicitude to solitude (i)

And, though things were terrifically strange, she felt oddly disinclined to speak.

But, she realized that she might be interested in her thoughts on now, a few months from now.

And, she enjoys tapping out characters as much as an enthusiastic pianist paws out notes from hammer and strings.

And, all the talkers were just saying the same things.

Then, she felt narcissistic for thinking about enjoying remembering her previous thoughts.

So, she shakes her head and scribbles.

So, twist and howl. Nothing else to do.

And, she feels boorishly derivative yet, impeccably derived.

So, she began each preceding sentence with inanities such as

And; but; then; so

So(?)

And, she feels restless and pent up despite already being a bit of a metaphysically hermetic, solitary creature.

But, the public solicitude to solitude made her space feel imposed not chosen.

And, while the difference was arguæbly negligible, she found it curious how much the distinction perturbs her.

“Insert sentence g here?” Æ, speaking to myself, prompts.

“Okay, here goes,” I reply to Æ.

a sugar glaze

The space was complicated; so, she resorted to speaking over-formally.

This town is starving for outsiders, but their dearth belies how the ravenous insiders devour the stranger.

They never saw the film but did like the video.

Intriguing, not difficult, becomes your vision.

The most trivial can be the most fascinating in this mystery of local idiosyncrasies

Strangest snow days she has ever seen.

She notes the font of her handwriting is subject to change without her awareness.

And, a single, specific thought seemingly drains your flaming blood into your feet.

Watching white suits leaving a briefing room.

Rustling. Give it two minutes and watch the weather change.

This.

Something.

Anything.

A hint of earnest, earned lethargy creeps, while the aroma of grapefruit percolates.

And, she kind of likes it when he tells her, “don’t look at me.”

The drone of an organ’s pumping warbles off of twirling, warped vinyl.

The strip of a terrific, diagonal stripe.

“Come hither, fool,” I snarled your full name while summiting multiple climaxes yesterday.

Simply, because,

I can.

I may.

fly.

“Early on, it’s silent.”

The blinds breathe as winds plow into screens.

Screaming hyænas hawing; locking into amber.

And, the condescension of his tone really pulled his outfit together.

The light fades and the sun sinks; and, she feels glad to have finally reached the town called Tonite,

where you see nothing and she sees all of nothing.

The light begins to bleed down blind slats in trickles, splattering on her floor.

“They oughtta incentivise me,” she overhears the casual walker say.

The last burst of light leaks into a small pool on the rightside of the cherrywood desk.

Then, it slides down the legs onto the floor, below, to join the previous dribbles.

A sugar glaze.

therein may we

Doll, you’ve got it confused.

You are completely vulnerable when you forget to be in the-Moment.

You merely feel vulnerable when you find the-Moment and discover you had forgotten it.

You were wandering through the Meadow of What-If.

The Marshes of Why-I-Oughta.

Your home is in Right-Now and you never leave.

You keep forgetting.

Mountains do not need to be seen to largely loom.

A pond does not need to exist continually.

Seasonal droughts come before

the flooding of Springtime

with its garish blooms and hissyfit storms.

Cycles of forgetting to remember to not forget,

abiding by celestial currents among the degrees of inclination about the axis.

As pokes retch,

a spoke stretches,

hissing,

from the rim’s circumference to the center axle.

Therein may we all meet.

The old plea of pleases

Arms.

Pull me close in arms.

Mystical shaking from astral exploration. Tend my physical body while I fly.

Because, the reading of an old text alights my spirit almost too easily.

A mystical proclivity circumscribed in existential insecurity,

Because how and who am I?

You tell me what you see.

But, press me close to you, so I don’t runaway at what you say.

Held dear until freed.

Then, left as a tree shaking out dead leaves,

recalling, in newly resounding silence,

the originally begged pleas of ‘please’.

shortlisted

What if they all hate you? Æ challenges.

How can they hate me? They don’t even know me.

Thinking you hate anything outside your skin is a misperception.

You hate yourself for hurting.

Just like I do. Just like them

So, when I think “go to hell” what I mean to say is:

I’m sorry you ever had to ever hurt.

Because I know that feeling.

Because the whimsy arc of time’s arrow, once arched, can be cruel.

When I think “you are exasperating”, what I mean to say is:

Thank you.

Because, patience requires testing to find its grace.

Because, I know what it is to find out someone thinks you’re exasperating.

When I am stupefied in surprise or fury, or admiration, at you, what I mean to say is:

I care for you.

Clearly.

Because, I have an opinion at all.

That turned sappy fast: is all with which Æ can counter.

Well, you posed a ludicrous question.

not only above, but also below.

Rip the mussels from their shells while I husk corn and shell peas.

A garlic clove, crushed with a knife’s handle, teases out its aroma.

The inoculation of a spinning dervish

who seeks the antipodal position of the divine.

Diabolical twirling in this ongoing energetic exchange between universe and organism.

En pointe is En garde.

The evokation of my exhalation diffuses and diffracts into atmosphere.

The invokation of my inhalation converges energy from

not only above, but also below.

The cyclone of the Void rampages through my celiac plexus.

The center of the eye of the storm is so motionless.

It crystallizes, dynamicizes, galvanizes,

before radiating into fibers of the nerves strewn along my

coronal plane;

when, just in the nick of time,

the cordon of my spine sucks

the ambient and I find

a respite in equilibrium.

The word Apologetics springs to mind.

A tangent unfurling

Lo siento

I feel it; but, I am not sorry