Tag: Iiterat

Re-cognition to Pre-position

He says: Attention is not the same as recognition.

I reply: What if you seek the attention of just one, only to be gained through recognition?

A remembrance of your re-cognition.

Private exhibitions in a single gallery.

Not a diasporic display, even if openly splayed.

The change from bitter to better is [i] before [e]

Except after [c], like my initial.

So, Æ remain unembittered for the better; but,

sometimes, my left eye twitches

A defiance of my body in the face of the mirrored reflection of self-control.

Self-taxing to grow your privatized, closed economy.

And, I scriven in this big notebook with smut.

Do most people know for whom they make themselves appear

or do they just present?

I should have written the words flowing through mind as I slipped to sleep, last night,

because, now, they come less easily.

⊙

Exfoliating feedback into smoothness.

Bang and blame.

Someone imitating you back to yourself to show how ugly you just appeared to them.

Trying to tell the girl who dogged herself to her face.

You remind me of mom, making that face: she says, making a face.

That’s exactly the kind of thing our mom would say to flip the script when she feels uncomfortable: I think but do not say.

The hinterlands wherein we hide behind passive aggressive similes and abide behind thoughts unsaid.

I am not whom I used to be; and, you liked her better; but, I like me more.

Price your art for your target markets and I’ll keep giving myself out for free.

Valued or bought and sold?

Valueless or invaluable?

Just desserts or just dessert?

A dable of monsoon in a desert.

Success for me is not success for you.

Success for me is the Tao of doing while still being able to notice when my bootlaces untie; so, I may, once again, pull this sea monster heart up by them.

He says: I know the magic trick called Algerian Bootstrapping.

I giggle.

I wasn’t talking about you, but I like to: I say with the pedantic, daft determination of someone choosing to end her sentence with a preposition.

Pre-position.

Concatenate through Catalisis

Consider an unabiding yet unbidden compulsion to comply.

Like how geometrical axioms are neither synthetic judgements made a priori, nor are they experimental facts.

They are conventions.

I do not enliven life through vitiating the mystical.

Yet, I use geometrical axioms everyday.

The magical, unconventional nature of all of our common conventions.

The cost of convenience should be underwritten in insurance policies.

The difference between idée reçue and idée fixe.

To understand universal symbolism you must realize

it is all subliminal.

A real dilemma, in the technical sense of formalized logic.

The associated oxyopia.

The difference between invoking and evoking.

What you see inside the mirror is just an image of reality,

a virtual reality- a dream.

So what are we, but breathing mirrors, dreaming ourselves awake with

an intuitively informed sense of discrimination, with this ability to perceive patterns.

Being perceptive is to be Praterhuman.

⊙

Someone asks: Why do you always speak in such language?

My eyes go wide, in pure surprise.

How could I not?: I blurt out.

From a planked position.

Troubadours clap out: one, two, three, four

before launching their song.

Choreographers snap: five, six, seven, eight.

⊙

Í, silently, count

one, two, three

four

five.

⊙

{Inhale and move.

An animal playing her lungs,

with the discipline of the earnest open-amateur.

Done for pleasure and not profit.}

⊙

A fugue of breath.

Comingling.

There is no room for thought when stood upon only one foot’s toes.

There is just getting oxygen to muscles without falling too hard.

Repeat until the body is too tired to not sleep.

It is not always elegant, and sometimes,

it becomes less so as the progression continues.

Irrelevant.

The point is the intent to doing;

and, the resultant action.

You’ve got to enjoy

the ride

until, abdomen and sides ache from maintaining

unnaturally natural postures.

⊙

It is in this ephemeral space from which

Í best perceive the flowing visions.

Pure restraint,

Time in mind.

Coalescing confluence of the conjunction

of this intersection of dimensions.

Planes upon planes with turtles

all the way down.

⊙

A whirling dervish aside a spiraling top.

Spinning pips and mumbly peg.

I do what I can to pass the time.

Only boring people suffer from boredom.

Says the voice called: don’t stop now.

So, í drop into a planked position.

A push up posture slowly dropped into an upwards arch.

Face presented to the moon.

Folding shoulders

With idiosyncratic impunity,

to own this longing to belong…

Sacred wood is the heaviest to carry,

But the most worthwhile in terms of time to cost,

down to, smouldering, remaining benefits of glowing embers.

Whose odd, red light trembles like magma flows.

And a voice more clearly reveals that it is a musical instrument

when it speaks in languages foreign,

In a strange tongue

that makes my shoulders suddenly fall forward,

caving in

going downwards

Shallowing into empty water lakes

into the above of

each, respective collarbone.

Where skin becomes

shoulder.

Sharply Honed

One is not obligated to the obliging one.

Heads.

Something bespoke is not beholden.

Taíls.

Trail heads.

Heady tales.

⊙

What is my secret?

To appear as though I have a sweet, secret.

This smile whispering to you, making you wonder:

what produces it,

it comes from the desire to make you believe that

í know something that you do not.

To make you wonder until

you must inquire,

“What makes her grin in that

small, lips-closed and

pressed-pursed way?”

To make you want to wipe it off my face,

if you cannot know.

Howl this only makes my grin grow.

Ask me in private, and you will see my upper lip

arch into a sinister snarl.

Because there is no one else t/here.

No one to save you, or overhear the

sound of the feral ferocity,

whose volume keeps rising in my harbour.

Silly beast, it is true:

You are brut(e).

You came for me.

You come to me,

to slay the dragon

stalking me; but, you

now see how it wraps itself around me,

slickly leather wings folding around my shoulders as does a shawl.

See how I play with and stroke the tips of its scaly wings?

It is my shadow companion.

My gossamer wings keeping it warm.

The fire of its breath keeping my second set of wings, steely knives, sharply honed.

This is the power of having an open secret.

Í have nothing to lose by revealing myself, but

you have everything to gain if

í do.

Chic Tweetz (Audio) – Desert Sessions Vol. 12

No rights: homage

to a song I cannot get enough.

Giggling my ass off since early this morning.

A lovely, silly diversion that lightens my mood.

Has a sort of Ian Dury and the Blockheads feel.

⊙

This album was released today.

Josh Homme has a disposition that attracts great talent.

From Queens of the Stone Age to Them Crooked Vultures (with John Paul Jones).

From Dave Grohl and Trent Reznor.

And, Iggy Pop.

And, now, Matt Berry.

Cheers

Mantle above hearth.

The sun hits that magic hour in its descent.

Making the black wrought iron scaffolding of the ongoing, neighboring construction appear alive and bioluminescent.

A shiny male hummingbird buzzes about my feeder.

He sounds like how carpenter ants work.

A single strand of spider web, disconnected from

save one of its points of anchorage, bandies about in the breeze like a tethered up sail boat does overnight, with its rigged sails furled tight like sleeping’s closed eyes.

The sun catches the gossamer strand in line segments up to but not including

its full length.

I smell someone has lighted a fire in their hearth for the first time in a long time.

My nostrils taste stale smoke.

Shall I gather the kindling while you carry the firewood?

My chimney flue prepared, opened after a recent clean.

Strike a match to it so I may wrap around, in the fire light,

like a little, infinite möbius

s

t

r

i

p

.

Questioning statements.

The breeze returns. Curt blasts whitecapping the water of the Sound.

My eyes return to your forearms.

Do you think sailors ever smoked to gauge the wind’s direction?: I ask.

There would be other, better ways, I imagine: he says.

But, any so physically and painfully pleasing?: I challenge.

⊙

Hear the sound of my hard swallow

after hearing you

say: no you cannot.

The yield of yielding when facing the inexorable other.

The difference between unmerciful and

mercilessly defines itself now,

Like the vulnerability of engaging in the outrageous.

⊙

Enraged does not imply rage any more than ‘engorged’ does not always imply an

Empurpled structure.

Shutter speeds of my apperature struggle to clearly capture the inside vantage point.

This lurid fecundity from your reinvigoration,

arches my spine into a gateway.

A point of entry becomes created.

⊙

Tell me something good.: he says,

as an outreach.

I say: I chop vegetables and fruits as meditation. Slowly, precisely. I pour my attention and love into the act until it feels as though they butcher themselves. Nourishing before ingesting for nourishment.

Mastery through repetition of action. I heard you swallow hard again, you know.: he replies.

My flow of thoughts continues to stream out from between my lips.

I feel my solar plexus and diaphragm release and tighten as my tongue and mouth shape the exhalations into

spoken sentences, saying:

the vivisection of a tomato is proof of magic and, isn’t it curious that oranges grow on trees whether you have a personal savior or not. I am not religious but I see the miraculous in much of the mundane. A habit can habituate into passé routine without proper inspection or

it may alchemicalize, under our will, into ritual.

Ssshhh. Your mind is always restless, do you think?: he quietly interrupts.

I think I feel a strange pleasure at you asking questions to which you already know the answer. And, yes my mind is. It takes a great deal of restraint on my part, to make it still.: I say.

Proper restraint is how we unleash ourselves and run wild.: says his voice.

The upward inflection on his final word gave the appearance of sounding like a question, even though

it is a statement.

Forward from the background

Compound the difference between want & need

with

the difference between need and neediness.

The equation yields an instrumental derivative that is also

an instructive integral,

Because the positive and negative space of herringbone (trans. houndstooth) patterns cannot be distinguished, the resulting visual is

like liquid words

wherein you may read yourself as the narrator or the audience.

Delicious dichotomy of the impeccably complementary.

The fall of a trip.

A pair of mended pantyhose, rationed from back during war time, hang on a wire, until dry, next to a patio railing lined with salted peanuts made as an offering to the nervous yet inquisitive Stellar’s Jays.

How I appear; how I am; how I perceive.

I first steeped in the blues near the delta shores of Muscle Shoals, as a child.

Families singing songs since forgotten by most places where time flows through you more quickly.

/ the grandfather clock was too tall for the shelf, but as it weighed,

not a penny,

not a penny, weighed more/

A pendulous arm with a weighted ball

pivots about the point of suspension.

Ticking out time in mono sound.

Watch it and I will show you how that strange land taught me to turn five seconds into three æons.

⊙

And, I write these words, first, by longhand to show how inane I can be; and,

to see those recognizing

kindness is kin of open-mindedness.

⊙

Sometimes I get a little...:howls the singer.

/And, when nobody’s there to write it, I’m gonna show you everything…/

/and, I can feel it in the silence…/

/why dont you come take a trip with me./

⊙

An emptied vessel is not necessarily vacuous; but, to

presume it is craven to be filled, is teleological fallacy.

Without trying,

{still}

a cistern is what it is:

Bits of sand transmuted into glass blown

to be exploded and then recapitulated.

Sea glass is simply sandy trash recycled.

⊙

I found the open secret viz a viz a well-marked rabbithole

with a spray painted perimeter to warn that

you fall at your own sweet risk.

Going Native

Taut red skin

Mercury droplets shifting, smearing.

The scent of the vanilla extract.

A compromise made in offering to being uncompromising,

to be compromised.

Reclamation of a piece of land left to lie fallow

after slash and burn farming.

Going native is just realizing your root.

A gift economy.

Pearl eats Oyster

The wex of supplication

The hex of self-sacrifice.

An aloe juice applied.

A smoked cigarette.

for supplication

of abasement.

⊙

Simplicity may dissolve into

a unity of psychic diversity.

Four bases produce

endless genotypes producing

infinite phenotypes.

The nature of nurture or lack thereof.

The art of service:

The difference between

I’m happy to help.

&

I’m glad to help.

Private humility

Laughing in the darkness of that which gifts you discomfort.

Where strangers are seldom seen.

⊙

I make circles. Keep up with my eyes.

Let it all be a tactical, tactile trick.

Kind brats of men move my pen.

See and know. Bathe with and clean.

Tepid water tested by toes while the ewer of a

faucet head drips.

⊙

Wake from a lucid dream into sleep paralysis at a touch of skin.

Churlish obstinacy and insubordination.

An affixed clothe-spin stinging like an inability to articulate.

A sheet hanging until until no longer wet.

The silence of the narcissist to the empath.

The empathic, giggling punishment of a narcissist.

A fretted string strung too tightly,

coiled to snap like a cobra.

A mouse that

turns out

to be a mongoose.

The extension of legs when moving from flat footed

to en pointe.

A swan taking flight.

A hunter knowing a swan strays not too far from its pond.

The thrill and repulsion of an irregular pearl who consumes

and swallows the oyster muscle.

.

Unidyll Cads

Some of us are born out of synch with time

, revealing shady shadows

hazy

making weird and wet.

Even now the power lines can be seen as

demarcators between sky and Sound

, the lie and the allusion of a false horizon.

As, it is not a two dimensional axial tangle where water meets sky

It enjoins the earthen solid with the heavens and the sea.

Like how I could not see the mountains to my left

, for a solid month. And

, upon, seeing them

, to only mis-take them to be transient clouds of vagrancy.

The crows take their nuts

, chucked down to the Pavement below.

The chickadees take and taste everything fearlessly.

The Stellars’ Jays need lots of attention

, carrying boomboxes slung over their left wing

, blaring The Boys are Back in Town.

The junkos take nothing but simply get caught in condo hallways above parking decks.

The hummingbirds

, they come with simple ferocity for the taste of sugar water.

And a staccato strikes repeatedly. In time

, I take action.

My left hand flips an ancient

, anchor Roman coin.

(No calling heads or tails

, as there is simply Janus).

Flick

, twirling woosh

, palm-slap catch.

My right hand plays with a switchblade knife.

Opened.

Balanced upon the the knuckles

, then

Pwap

Balanced upon the underside of the knuckles

, my palm open skyward.

Spinning the web of a mesmorist to lay your tired greyhound mind to rest.

Notice howl the flare of nostril changes the shape of your lungs’ breath.

/and, nobody cares, especially me. But, I can’t help myself/

As I fall back awake from sleep.

/the intolerable lucidity of insomnia/ wrote Jorges Borges (The Circular Ruins).

The Art of Dreaming authored Carlos Castaneda after years of staying up all night.

The Voice of Knowledge wrote the nagual.

Shadowboxers fighting in the sunshine are oft under

Appreciated.

Parçigal Waxes for Æ

A man I pass every morning told me, yesterday: you must be a native, dressed like that.

I wore a pallet of grey, black, and brown.

I assumed it was these colors that made him say such a thing.

Then, I saw myself.

A native alien in this strange land,

but four hundred years before now.

An imposter amongst the indigenous.

A civilized lady gone native.

A warrior savage with hunters who fall with her.

And, now, I see that

the Sound is water and sky together.

A point of infinity from whence we cannot distinguish air from liquid.

And, now, dearheart, night became itself.

The moon waxes nearly full,

jumping from one side of the street to the other,

as I snake around two city blocks. And,

even clearer now does the tower

with twenty seven windows crumble before mine eyes.

I built those eleven steps to its front door two decades ago.

Where many may think: what has become of my work?

I think: that old thing is still standing?! Didn’t Æ cry “to dispose of this” as the Philistines yelled at Daniel in a Lion’s den.

But, see,

I know: a lioness does well in a lion’s den.

Permittivity

The story always flows inside. Now, outside, as well. Like JM says: I see something of myself in everyone; just at this moment of the world.

From the perspective of the Pendulum’s pivot point

From which we are all hanged.

So, I pace out a one-room prowl.

Cursed and blessed our we,

tethered by our high potential of permittivity?

They shalt not treat us unkindly,

but, we may ache further(,)

still.

These indirect aspersions haunt my southern plane,

remaining innominate.

I see you,

nearly combustible from that raw fossil fuel that burns out of your eyes as hot tears.

An enflamed emanation of emotion.

A diesel engine backfiring.

A vice-president shooting his friend in the face.

A murder that occurs on account of how hot it is.

A happy death.

A shadow.

A deal with the devil that you pray to god s/he must hono(u)r.

Ariadne Howls to Æ

How is it that, I, Ariadne, she whom gave you the string to trace your way out of this labyrinth, now finds herself strung along by it?

When did the slipped, sleeping pill take æffect?

Am I woke or lucid dreaming

Or sleep walking?

I came

from whence rhythm first flowed and then flew.

I return twice slain.

Yet, still

I return,

by choice,

hunting on my tip toes.

Collected Strands

Restless a.m.

I

Ayes running through my mind’s eyes like little cottontails scrambling into the brambles.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Robins bobbling around for worms.

The only animals appearing sleepy are tethered. A dog walking a human.

⊙

A clot of hair collects about a nail head that is pounded into the railing.

I suppose it is mine.

Strands tugged a’loose like feathers, after the daily ritual of:

arrive home, sit outside, and, let the waves down.

Like little feathers lost only to be reassembled into

a new configuration.

A merkin for the metal.

The Undercutters: Prologue

“I couldn’t get accreditation. I simply lack credibility.”

“Too damn incredible, eh?”

“Am I working too hard?”

“Harder than most.”

“Then have I diminished my own returns?”

“Maybe.”

⊙

“I have a business proposal: The Undercutters,” says Effie.

“Go on.”

“Meet in front of the bakery at 8 a.m. tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Wear two layers of clothes. All black on the exterior, but colorful clothing beneath. Bring a bandana. We may wanna cover our faces.”

Dream of a rude awakening

A pair of legs splayed to show well placed snaps.

“Undo them.”

That’s what he said.

I do.

“You want to feel the rise of my serpent up your spine’s

base.”

I roll over for this rude awakening.

For the howl of it.

Piss Factory.

No rights, just homage and tribute.