sound sleeper

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.

Æ plays my favorite game

Æ dreamt of Blue House, with its strangely angulared architectural

In the tiny library, we saw sharp, slanted writing on every inch of the walls.

Covered in sigils unreadable, sentences ineffable,

Interjections conjuncted with exclamations.

An indifferent, yet, energetic-ally aggressive atmosphere

devoid of hostility.

From there, last night,

I wrote to you :

Will you halt me with your mouth

and show me your mind?

I wonder as

a coquettish muscle spasms in my left foot.

Musculature malefactors.

I love the almost-pain of it.

Malediction, subliminally decried, to inoculate.

What is the difference between chaos

and the constant state of affairs?

Is there one?

Or, does that inclination follow the declination of the earth’s disposition?

A punk band called No Vigil

battling

A punk band called No Sigil.

I dreamt I held back the masses of an audience

, for you,

by making them wait on me

while I was waiting on you,

according to some malfeasant line of time.

Æ asks me: shall we play your favorite game?

What is the difference?

Yes, pleas.

What is the difference

between hidden and secret?

between esoteric and occult?

A cabaline cabal, prancing, at Sette’s auction.

It made you giggle when

my response to your heady sentence was:

Oh my, I do like your phrase “operative formulæ.” How are you spelling it?

Does it make a difference?

Your forehead wrinkles show a perpetual proclivity for a quizzical, lopsided expression of interested curiosity.

You made yourself the background and

predicate to my subject;

and, in doing so,

you taught me to make others the subject against my background,

the positive space to my negative space,

And, to invert.

Where the web traps, there does To-Be

become

the difference between to deceive and duplicity.

A copy of the copy of a copy.

What is the difference between revealed and reveiled?

A ‘I’.

“The thraldom of imagined existence.”

A’bridged nuzzling.

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.

Feathers of eyelashes

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.

Dream of a sleepy hum.

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.

Palm up

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.

Serving Specters

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.

Sitting on the floor.

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.