ill-suited.

He looked terrifically out of place, dressed like that, here on the trail.

She was a bit irritated at the utter distraction of him.

Yet, he was fascinating.

But, she was trying to take a walk through the woods down to the fish ladder of the old mill creek; and, here was a man in a three piece suit, postured in repose on the sopping bank, as though prostrating before some ancient pagan god.

And, from across the salmon’s spawning pond, she espied that while his necktie was perfectly knotted, the color and pattern of it did not suit his suit.

Not in the slightest.

Off-rack; Tailor made. Beholden; Bespoke

He just sat there. Brutally still, Unnaturally, there in the tall grass.

Loafers in the mud. Simply wearing all the wrong clothes.

She imagines he must be a terrible dancer.

And, she suddenly wants to interrupt him and ask for a dance.

Talk of weather

“Sunlight yesterday; dreary today,” he says.

I tease, “Oh, stop with the dismal diablerie, cad. It’s not gloomy. It’s simply a winter gloaming.”

“That’s not what I meant”, he says.

“Oh, I just thought you were awful fond of talking about the weather,” I panto, innocently.

” ‘Awfully’,” he mumbles.

“You are awfully fond of talking about weather?” I giggle, in mock with brown eyebrows arched.

“No. You meant to say ‘awfully fond’. Adverb not the adjective,” he says.

I howl in laughter, “Be careful telling me what I ‘meant to say’; because, you have no idea what I intend.”

~

There once was a boy.

And, there he was until he became.

He held himself still. Held fast and listened.

There did he discover he was himself

all over again.

She smiles, unobserved, from the corner.

struck by sunlight.

The backside of the house was struck by sunlight following a cloud burst’s clearing.

Casted like spells looming, the pair of old trees guarding the home’s back door entryway, conjure a pair of ancient shadows, saying:

“We were planted nearly a hundred years ago. We saw it all. The doctor and his wife, first. They planted us as they built their shelter above the groping outpouring of our subterranean root structure,” says tree i.

“We saw him deliver the daughter right out of his own wife’s belly. Right next to the butler’s pantry. Midwife present to mediate the metaphysical nuances of old-timey, natural, live births,” says tree ii.

“He was the only doc in town, see,” ads tree i.

“And, we saw that daughter raise her children here, just as she had been raised above our roots,” says tree ii.

“And, though you bring us nothing but you, a lonely homesteader, we see how you learn to erect the ether of your own root’s structure,” says tree i.

“Yes, discovering the dimensions of your pyramide before constructing,” tree ii.

Build your radix for me, priapus.

Show us the wasted seed of what could have been the next generation.

imagine I feel

A story is a story is a narrative is a story is an experience is

A lifetime.

“I don’t know.”

That’s what he said

, when I asked in a low, hushed, tone,

“How do you feel right now?”

The lovely pitch and tremolo of that voice.

As delicate as sinew finely strung and harshly wrought.

Utter “freedom,”;

requiring me to keep one foot in the wage economy of the mundane.

Like how your guru turned out to have a cigarette and woman habit.

Something must keep a mystæ mind from leaving here and now.

What better than an active hand in one’s own mortality?

Morbidity versus gestational rates.

Malthusian growth.

I heard your response before you said it.

And the forgotten

essence of Hesse’s

Glass Bead Game slips through as an ethos that the spiritual ideal, once obtained, is to then be put back into

the service of life and the living.

Doting and clinging like

a jaguar killing a caiman.

Death rolling.

Binding in the collective noun enumerating

A rare of knots.

Throwing seed and sowing semen.

Tilling the earth, post slash and burn agriculture.

Fallow lands left to lie and respawning

New growth.

Imagine I feel exactly as I appear.

Automatic Diatribe (II)

Here.

Heel.

We are running in circles.

Cyclical spires of turrets leading to screaming minarets.

All is as it has been before.

And, I hear your silent complaint that I never wear my hair naturally curly anymore.

Give me a reason.

Who summoned whom from the pneumatic ether and how many times?

Who and Whom are a real, diabolical pair.

Alain de Botton hissing out a status of anxiety.

Dialogueing with the ecological shaman of

David Abram casting natural spells of the sensuous.

Put your faith in me.

I will make you watch me return it and put it back into yourself while I ask you to consider the chartreuse evening.

Prowling the catacombs of the catatonic.

Buffering neophytic initiants while irritants and retinal scratches

itch;

because sometimes I say silly things when I’m embarrassed.

Hand sigils and face touching.

The difference between indoctrinated and initiated? I call to Æ like a game show host.

The difference between you getting it and blowing it versus you getting it and not blowing it: he grins, blowing it for both of us.

And what if what I call discipline is just self-indulgence?

You bitch.

Don’t fret. I love you madly, too.

It is true. I don’t know you, yet Æ thinks I do.

You’re interesting: he says.

I reply: you listen or hear better than most.

Ammend-able.

Amen-able.

Ami-able.

Ambivalent.

What’s the difference between the interval and the rest.

Your silence.

Duress and stress?

They were meant to know of how I see your eyes, dear.

Depleted and explicative.

is followed by

A truck drives by us, at well over the speed limit. Zebras in its trailer. It made you remember that limerick.

The only one, you. Know.

I say, “I don’t call ghosts ‘sir’.”

Precisely proud.

Let it roll while I make strange sigils with my fingers:

The pyramidic containment of an ‘A’, for you;

The flipped up middle finger over my left shoulder, back facing you;

The inversion with a middle finger flipped down;

Hang ten;

Metal horns.

(Another haul of the mother lode laid at the

grounded, pegged point of the Caduceus Staff.)

Shiva and Shakti as agronomists¿

And, my fingers move as if by some outsider’s volition.

The movement is an apple cart over-turning,

upsetting some.

Why wouldn’t we want to bring it all down?

Dictionary divination of a dervish

And, ca is followed by

cabal is followed by

cabala is followed by

cabalero is followed by

cabaline is followed by

cabanis is followed by

Cabaret.

embedded trinity of coos.

The boy had tried to stone the crows, but they just caught the rocks with beaks.

“I shall train them to stone the child/wren back,” she thought.

“It would be instructive.”

But, then she remembered she had simply cribbed a line from someone and made a fantasy from it.

Anyways, the kids were in school right now.

Her crows were perched overhead, waiting for peanuts.

⊙⊙

Oh, so you need prompting now?: Æ asks me.

And, promptly: I deadpan.

Someone is playing for Team Sensitive today: Æ smiles.

I grin: Fecking captain. And, the fact that you love me like this pisses me off.

Æ counters: You’re more entertaining than when in your mystæ provocateur state.

Dickhead: I think, stinging from the blow.

Every time with you: Æ thinks, reading my mind, laughing.

You know, I refilled the coffee on Mr. Book of Answers‘ table today. He said, ‘Thank you for your sensitivity.’ I was charmed.

⊙⊙⊙

Hold my hands so they become held(,) dear.

Silversmiths of alchemists gatekeeping access to backrooms of bazaars thick with smoke.

A misty haze formed by fast talk and subtle exchanges.

Quicksilver traded for the mercurial.

Where those who do not wear thier darkness on thier sleeves abscond to let thier absence of light shine.

A speak easy of sly shadow souls and sacred fools that is only found by not looking.

Defy the beast, release.