Curvaceous calculus.

Because she has the time, she performs the reconfiguring of the dogan. She razes, and ritely begins rebuilding her mental palace of labyrinths and mazes. The masses suddenly grow massless and restless around her, collectively unflexing the muscles of their prowess.

Even running the kitchen hood fan becomes risky; but, only because the old man upstairs is pent up and pissy. It’s become hard for him, continually hearing the business of people living. But, he creaks about the boards at a later and later hour, hoping for an email telling him, “I hear you.”

Implicating the certainty of my missing the hearing of his late night pantry raids.

A silent fireside chat.

And, even with computer processing, the avalanche of paperwork rolled over the system. A coattailing bug being currently debugged.

Some people disappeared; others went silent but seeable; and then there were those mouths which could not stop talking.

And, she wrote the same word so many times over the years, that she could no longer remember if the ‘i’ came before the ‘e’ or if the case is exceptional.

“We must stop wasting time,” he said, for the innumerable time.

“Then stop saying the same thing and get down to it. Watch the shape of the s curves of my shifting body, stretching. Do you see how the area under my curves remains the same in the end?”

“Yes.”

“You see how some iterations of my curve are more dynamic than others?”

“Very much.”

“Good. As regards this ardent analogy, ultimately, some will get it and some won’t.”

“So, we go slowly, take advantage of additional time.”

“Why not. Now hush and map my s curves.”

“Curvaceous calculus.”

traded for the raw.

The body awoke ready to go, bit chomping.

The mirror folded; I fell inside.

Slipping between thighs. Breathy ardour.

Missing the coverage provided by the forest, traded for the raw exposure upon the lapping shore.

Everyone can hear my morning stomach growl, but doubt they do.

What’s the point?

The finality of a punctuated period.

The capital letter leads the presentation of the subsequent subject of a sentence.

Verdict of friction made visible by the absence of the fricative.

Does it taste as I imagine? Salty and acrid.

Does it pass through the nostrils in musky humid drafts?

Expelled and rolling down cliffs of pronounced pelvic bones.

White capped.

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.

pious profanity

The wrought iron chair scrapes patio stone, as I tuck into the table.

A thigh grazes mine, too innocuously.

Pressing its luck against me.

I look over to see averted eyes busily studying the hangnail of a left thumb.

“Rip it off or let it be,” I say.

Those eyes find mine.

I let my hair down. Disinterest feigned.

“Do you want to know what I’m thinking?” he asks me.

“No. If you wanted to tell me, you already would have. Besides, I already know.”

“What am I thinking?”

“You are thinking: I want her to ask me what I’m thinking.”

“Wishful and reductionist thinking.”

“So?”

I seize the arms of my chair and rake my chair closer.

Outer thighs mashing in an intentional collision.

“Put your ear to my mouth. I want to whisper exactly what I am thinking,” I say.

An ear presents itself to my open lips; and hears,

out of my sweet mouth, sailor strings of profanity pouring piously.