I procured twelve stones and one pebble,
from the tidal pool,
while the water was low and you slept,
under high moon.
Rock hounding the Sound on
A cloudless night.
Bouldering about, unseen, in all black.
You could see all the usually obscured mountains.
I could see what you were presently dreaming.
Ø
The real price of your handbag involves multiple lives and wages of economies. Repair your brogues with a local cobbler, on the Main (sic. high) Street.
Crystal palaces aside dashes bisecting Eisenhower’s tar strips for the machines of some imagined war. The ones we drive and call highways. Four ways. Parallel, running lanes. Bits of varicose veins on this nation’s aging skin. The final passage of the Kon-Tiki, Ra Expeditions.
And, the cars passing by on the high road of the hilly bowl a’layed before the Sound, sound like currents running through macro-Boolean gates.
{Red light, stop.}
{Green light, go.}
{Yellow light…}
Use your best judgement.
~
I sit in reverie before an altered, candle flame.
Through my open windows, the sound of gravel ground under pedestrian boots crunches now and then. A honking car horn’s reassurance, echoing, as someone redundantly clicks a particular button affixed to a keychain.
The blast of a ferry foghorn. The doppleganging drone of the passing by train’s horn. These things sound like the call to the adytum of the temple.
I enjoy the world immediately around me, settling itself towards bed. Cars are little pups, turning circles til all tired out. A slowly descending cacophony.
The difference between darkness and the absence of light.
I consider the chartreuse evening and imagine you toiling the earth, tilling, to sow your seed
beneath the pylon of the pit.
A berserker producing a glass of Norton wine that makes you want to shake the hand.
It is an Ibis’ vintage.
Breathe.
I have not heard you speak so.
Voice trembling and slightly rushing.
{Words between the lines}
Who did you envision as your audience¿: Æ wonder.
⊙
I remain Wittgenstein’s Mistress to the bibliophiles.
In the quadrangle, where others play chess,
where others play tennis,
where Æ square(ly) dance in strange ellipses, orbiting
the pieces and players,
our cads and minnesänger, wondering
Since when did “simple” imply “stupid”¿
⊙
And, minne-spæker,
it is because you bit and swallowed the Sardonios plant, that you convulse and laugh so strangely and hard. I have read it tastes bitter to the buds.
Is it so to the taste of your tongue¿
It has got you laughing so hard that the neighbors complain.
Sardonic giggling at the guilt of being worry=free,
at your shamelessly feeling restless when you have no desire to idle,
at the inability to enact due to your concern for being imperfect.
An ideal idyll.
⊙
An Arizonian dream of summer, intension of heat, arises within me,
even though, the ambient temperature is frigid, like desert (k)nights.
It radiates outward and into all which my skin contains.
And, I’m sweating heavy like summer.
Smelling for you.
Feeling beadlets bursting from the multitudes of singular pores in my face.
My visor and visage.
A strong craving for coffee consumes me.
in the
Blue House.
“It is the silent transmission of sexual energy in polarity that vibrates the Word in Silence, and that Word is a S(word) that cleaves the Abyss
and it is heard of No-One.”
~ Nightside of Eden. Kenneth Grant.
Living level with a parking lot.
The true danger of always opening windows is
what the neighbors must think during the winter.
It is not about the thieves, that which you worry.
How strange you, too, recall that same thing that never happened.
A sweet rendezvous in a town of busybodies,
where it is both
easy and hard
to remain in sight yet unseen.
The subtext of the Magnicat whispered to me, during
evening vespers.
“The Nerbudda River runs
seven hundred and thirty five miles,
towards and eventually into, the Arabian Sea,”
You appear vestal.
And, I feel myself becoming
Vesta who is often
, simultaneously
, Blodeuedd of the House of Dôn.
⊙
Magenta to yellow honeycomb energy frames my perceptivity.
I come as
I came,
octagon-ally.
And, I work my role.
Tending the hearth and protecting the flame within,
remaining wylde and seeming untamæble.
Small flowers of the temple work alongside.
Eagle at my right shoulder.
I show them my tool for starting pyres.
A frictionless=match.
A Wax Vesta is also a whirling dervish of
embedded cotton strands
strewn amongst a waxen stem and
tipped with a phosphorous head.
⊙
Hesperus is Phosphorus.
Phosphorus is Eosphorus.
And, Eos made them both.
We remind the othered that the Evening Star was determined to also
be the Morning Star.
⊙
The vexillum distinguishes the two troops serving under separate standards;
And, the blazon of
the web of a feather distinguishes each and every of us
as a vexillary.
A deadbeat heart.
Pounding.
⊙
Understand that returning to base
(camp)
; is not a setback
; it is not regressive
; it is not going backwards.
It is a cycle
seeking its own resumption
through completion.
⊙
A warrior struggling with perpetual reality.
So yammer
; and give ’em howl, yellow hammer.
A fluid ounce is a preponderance in candle’s magic light.
A meditation.
A drawing.
Makes me wonder how your childhood face
, smiling,
appeared.
⊙
Are we to heed that as a call?: asked the Name=less One.
All things feel as bindings abiding.
Perhaps, Præter=being is the natural state of affairs,
after all this free-fall.
And, maybe
, Judas was just some heckler in the crowd
at jesus’s stand=up comedy special.
Just do not knock the quiver
of the Archer’s arrows.
He is basic but deadly in the face of the clumsy.
Simple and simply fatal.
Go a’head and
miss=under=estimate his prowess
as has countless bison before you.
⊙
Find the hideous freedom to be exactly who you are.
Now.
The delicious self=noitcelfer that arises from the awareness of transparency.
Because, the windows of Looking=Glass House are two=way.
But, there will you find only sand
with no stones which may be thrown.
⊙
Where your perception of what is outside your skin
is actually the reception of the content presented
by that which is contained
by your in=skin.
The sun made like a runaway today.
Let me lay you on your back, bare.
Crawl up on you like a curious, hungry animal,
and occupy myself with sniffing your scent.
Smells of you.
Because, the smell of the skin below your wrist
is not the smell of the skin stretching over your ankles
is not the smell of the thumping skin above your jugular
nor that of the skin behind your ear.
It will not smell of the skin between your legs
which will not smell as does the stench of your armpit.
Or the smell of your open mouth.
And, my incessant humming
will become Sygyt.
The strangely drone of polyphonic overtone singing.
And once I’m done,
I would pad circles on you
, like a dog preparing to sleep
, of tossing and turning
, and
, wrapping round you.
For warm comfort.
Finding the right proper position of
a deep winter nuzzle.
That which transpires behind that which appears.
Captivating verging upon captive taking.
I’ve taught everyone No Thing.
I’ve told No Body everything.
Bones tapping.
Dropping skeletons to read the bones strewn,
recalling those cries from the crowded street.
Exuberance of the hysterical normalcy.
I dare you in this kindly sinuous challenge of tendons and ligaments.
A pale, dark-horse rides in, unbidden.
Flared nostrils from a face concealing a mirror of mind thinking:
If the dæmon would seek, Æ would ask a dance.
I recall a big, yellow, American-style school bus,
in the middle of the desert.
I just arrived.
There are extraordinarily beautiful, tall, elegant people about, maybe fifteen total, leisurely milling. They have nothing pressing to which they attend.
I am alone and new, per se.
I am acutely aware of this.
I feel disapproval.
I receive an unfriendly welcome; this I derive from the expressions of the others as they take notice of me, for the first time.
A stunning, pale-skinned blonde approaches, motions to the school bus, and, with perfectly calculated ‘disinterest’ says:
They can teach you the ways of death.
As though this was that which I sought.
Of course, you’d need to talk to Kimberly first.: she says.
I say: Kimberly is actually my cousin. She is already dead.
I intuit this disarms her through surprise.
My immediate understanding and audacity to speak it to her face.
And, (no shit) I think: Nice try, you silly bitch. I wilt not fall for your maleficent insinuation. I am just barely pretty and charming enough, in a strangely colloquial way, to have made it to this place of your people. I know your resentment of my prescence leads you to seek my removal, but I am in no rush to die. I certainly will not seek my death at your subliminal request. You feel threatened by my uncultured, odd intelligence. There is no reason for this. I do not want to mess with the circles within which you run. I am no threat. If you were slightly less self-involved, you would perceive this and make me your ally.
I’m the proud-beauty of your worst night-mares.
I say to her mind, in mine silent stillness: Æ ain’t leaving on that short, yellow bus. You may try to trick this fool into it; but,
Æ see through this mirage you call an oasis.
She walks away.
I pull out my stakes, canvas tarp, and tenterhooks.
Pitching camp before the freezing night comes.
I come from the water: a voice of my head suddenly says.
(I briefly become lucid in the dream, before losing the thread.)
I recall: there are four, fundamental groups: Water, Earth, Sand, and, blood.
Æ am a blood, but no-one can tell, unless Æ tell them.
I had reached the Sand after arising from distant Water.
We all came from Earth, but I had not been there or seen them in ages.
And, as Æ am thinking these things, I feel an intensifying heat rising in both hands.
Fingers and palms burning in sensation, not flames.
I think: I have the power to raise intense heat from my hands. I can emit it into the world around me, perhaps as a weapon. I feel over-confident.
I examine the feeling more closely.
I discover that Æ am not radiating the heat from within myself.
Heat is being emitted from an invisible sphere outside myself.
The orb is somehowl held in place between my palms, as if strung upon a string.
Like a diabolo.
I reach this revelation after experimenting. Moving my hands closer together/farther apart. Noting small changes in nerve sensitivity.
What I first thought was coming from my Within to the Outwards is actually being generated from the Outward and perceived and wielded by mine Within.
Even in dreams, I remain yours.
I have come for none other.
The smell of chai spice pours skyward from the pot of boiling water.
Vapour blessing the room like sage humbly burned.
Pealing recalling things and those missed.
Blushing cheeks and bitten lip.
°
I have seen the city skies from on high; they light up like an introspective brain’s neural network.
Psst. Wake up.
Pushing my nose deeply into your neck,
to inhale; get your smell.
I wish to entwine the two;
Make the aroma of chai ever tied to the scent of you.
I remind myself to not forget this, mine intent,
whilst batting this piece of your thin skin with
the feathers of my eyelashes.
I saw it while dreaming of the restaurant.
Seating parties of varying sizes to tables;
Assembling a dynamic loop of a jigsaw puzzle.
Chess like square-dancing.
Moving quickly whilst not appearing to hurry.
⊙
A skeletal, thin, blonde woman wears a strange stow made of scraps of many types of fabrics.
When she stands and puts her hands on her hips,
the effect is she appears like a plush, red heart.
When she appears as such,
those I’m seating, I seat without menus.
They are different and seem to be unperceived by the menued others.
⊙
A menuless and short but muscular man, fiftyish perhaps,
looks at me,
as my stride slides alongside
his seat at a table for two.
He leans his neck back slowly as I approach.
I stretch my torso forward and past my legs;
{anticipatory}
I crane my neck.
I watch his head twist a dramatic 90° as I find myself directly aside him.
I am mid stride and passing him by
and, somehow when he parts his licked lips, I find my mouth upon his,
four eyes smiling like two idiots.
A fast pair of deep kisses.
I withdraw, not missing a step.
I am shocked at how seamlessly and seemingly naturally, I warmly dropped my professionalism.
I intuit any other diner or employee perceptive enough to have noticed this exchange, would have found themselves smiling.
I am stunned at the strange pride felt at
his bidding my kiss so publically, innocently, and nonchalantly.
And, within this very non-lucid dream,
I felt dream jà vu.
I’d not met him before; but I
knew him still.
Two inches of whiskey cut the slightly sugared ice cube that clinks against glass.
And, it strikes such that I wonder if
the movement from barter-subsistence economies to cash-wage economics
redefined the notion of freedom.
⊙
I dreamt I found the missing earring.
⊙
Do I still appear obstinate and obdurate?
My back feels tight.
⊙
I dreamt the very same knotted muscle could be helped by the difference in a table that could seat four and a table that could seat two.
It made no sense on waking.
⊙
The re-couping of regime change wars.
Quid pro quo and blahblahblah.
A political revolution or a social one?
Who is allowed to feature in a narrative?
The disability resulting from uncertainty.
Costs of innovation.
I need a hair cut, but have not been here long enough to
to know to whom to go.
⊙
I dreamt a being with violet eyes, violet hair, and violet eyebrows came to me because it was said I knew how to not break but to bend.
The shadows in the room grew.
Dipping the length of my leg into this newly found darkness,
like a penknife pushing it.
Stretching and testing.
And, I do not smile because I do not want to, despite feeling quite well and glad.
{in spite of bronchitis}
In my space, for the moment, there is simply, only No-One here to signal, unconsciously, with subconscious microexpressions.
My face enjoys
this fleeting freedom from observation.
My ears need not hear.
My eyes need not look.
My nostrils will choose when they wish to smell.
There is no thing I wish to taste or touch outside of my skin
right, exactly, now.
Just my own internal limbering.
So, I shift my body slowly to the rhythm generating; and,
feel my muscles begin to give.
I feel my inside/s.
It feels good and well warm/ed.
Hands raise above my head.
Breathing, not breathing.
(Resumption)
(Concession)
My heart keeps on beating.
And, my movements mirror
myself imagining me
as the serpent coiling ’round the Caduceus staff.
The toes of my dexterous foot, the finality of my snaking tail.
Inhale.
The fingers of my a gauche hand,
the small extremity of my fanged head.
Spiraling, in place.
My neck pops loose whilst
stalling in the suit of wands
and a decade of venom releases from muscle memories long forgotten.
I drain the venom out of my feet.
Exhale.
I raise the newly freed energy into my fangs.
I suddenly recall:
When playing a kazoo,
remember,
to hum;
don’t blow or you’ll
tear the wax paper.
Hush and sleep: he says.
You know the effect such words from you, produce in me, brut(e): I think.
I smile and snuggle under the covers.
I thought I could catch you: I mumble, frowning a bit, fretting you will be gone when I re-enliven.
Outside, hail begins softly falling.
I say: you seem like the kind of guy who, if famous, would make his address public to encourage trespassers who could then be legally shot on site/sight.
He laughs: that could be my remake of The Most Dangerous Game.
I say: when you say “don’t tread on me,” I hear, “don’t tease me, I’m sensitive.”
I’m no bully.
Consider: Lordosis behavior and (bow)ties as the doses being titrated according to the response.
High heels were originally designed for men riding steeds. Heels hold stirrups, see. Push your heels down to get a proper seat in the saddle.
Today, the cost of the high heel is in its signal communicating desire. Done so with a bit of nonchalance.
It creates a slight spinal arch indicating receptivity.
Consider a (bow/neck) tie again.
You can get choked out easily, if the knot is grasped and twisted.
I cannot effectively run away, quickly, in heels.
Subliminal symbiotic signaling of an exchange.
Relishing when your smirk draws my snarl.
Proving to me, that you are second to none.
Give me your open palm, I will trace the wrinkles running.
Massaging knuckles a’loose.
Popping like logs a’flame,
the liquid spaces between bones and cartilage.
I am cleaning your hand’s battleground
from being strewn with tension’s carnage.
The meadow languishes.
Three pairs of your feet’s steps remain visible now,
even though you lied down, minutes ago.
Grass pressed into small etches slowly refilling themselves to full volume.
My eyes go loose and wide as
they stop seeing and start imagining the imprint your form will leave
when you arise.
Topiary impressionist piece.
Watching the moody weather make its precious, little changes.
False threats of pending precipitation.
The sky throwing a hissy fit for our benefit.
I finally sit down to watch it proper.
Strange grid-like lines buzz low intensity neon colors into a concaved and convexed axis.
Strange maths laboring, barely concealed by a cloudy cover.
I feel that sudden lucidity accompanying
the realization that I am dreaming.
Come.
Sit by the fire in the hearth.
I will put my chin on your knee, stare into the ether and let my thoughts run.
Perched upon your feet, keeping your toes warm.
Closer to the earth.
The storm passes, the rain relents, and the sky above the Sound nearly recovers.
The air outside remains cold.
⊙
Locals say this place is cursed.
I’ve seen enough tragedies in others in my four months here, to believe it.
Heard of even more.
Yet, here shall I establish my residence.
A mid-thirty year old,
amongst the retirees still seeing themselves as inhabitants of Stellar Street.
Mick and Keith working the corner shop.
⊙
The wealthy snow birds hum, at the restaurant where I work, about migrating to the South for the winter.
Winter homes.
“Guess how old I am”: he says.
His wife giggles.
Howl I loathe this game.
But, this pair is old enough to not take anything personally.
78: I guess.
The correct answer is 97.
He proceeds to tell me experiences from both the first and second world wars.
I am captivated.
They do not take their leftovers to go. They turn down the offer of free bread.
°
The less well-to-do appear even more non-corporeal.
No winter homes to which they may abscond.
Disembodied spirits of bodies that no longer exist.
To serve and host at this restaurant requires second sight.
Many of these people long ago became invisible to most.
Are you Irish?: he asks.
No, I’m from the South.
Oh, I was stationed there with the good old boys. They went to bars during their off-time. I went to museums and landmarks. But, I was odd.: he tells me.
He shares stories of being an 18 year old from Montana who ended up in the South during George Wallace days.
I am captivated.
He and his wife take their leftovers home in a box and ask for extra free bread
which they are given.
Let me nuzzle my cheek, just barely, against the uppermost part of your pectoral muscle while you tell me stories of before I knew you.
Let us, again, rub limbs together like how crickets sing, to keep warm.
Because I can see the pending winds of winter on the watery horizon of the Sound admidst the
clouds of steely grey.
Smoke from some celestial dragon finishing an exhalation
from his degree of inclination.
Pull close in arms and tether me against you.
Listen to the furnace rattle and to the homestead’s ribbing creaks.
Because, when the partially frozen rain begins descending,
we wilt not see but what is immediately in front of us,
So, let it be one to the other, through this season of alaying bare.
Absconding into the maelstrom, with the spirals of myself.
These circles containing and being contained by me.
Upon hearing your kindly laugh, my torso relaxes and I smile then
miss my train
of thought.
And, oh, how today’s strange sun casts a horrific smile over the snow-peaked caps, without melting them bare.
With caprice.
But, this coming winter, that is misery’s company, loves to re-enliven
a springtime bloom.
These changes in the degree, the continued inclination of rotations, occur.
Turning the cosmos on and off with the flick of a switch.
And, atoms look solid but there is so much space within them.
Hollowness of the empty plenum.
You can accomplish all and everything in the company of infinity,
because nothing there is done incrementally.
Evolution moves more quickly when our orbit is at its most elliptical.
WrittenCasey 