original spelling contains

I need a soft in.

I can give it to you if you give me a hard one.

Abel and Baal are one in the same, bloodline seeded by Seth.

Descent of spirit into matter; the mystery of redemption.

The Queen of Magnets rides a bull. She remembered Chorozon moonlights under the alias Klingsor.

A ChAlice is the final formula of ecstasy, as the original spelling

contains the moon, the sun, and the great name of One.

The Gral

that redeemed him during the descent of his spirit into matter.

This was back before time grew out of joint:

Before he claimed to be the great, lost serpent;

before he told me, “I am Leviathan;”

a black rose formulated by the organic organization of one hundred and fifty six petals.

A song that the Sphinx hummed.

He came onto me singing, “the beat of my heart is the pendulum of love.”

I spoke unto him, “who is not both predator and protector, whilst also who is not preyed upon and in need of protection?”

Æ shows Parçigal some leeway.

~There it is! That trigger you press to release my pressure valve.

⊙You were quite tight.

~Then do it again. I could be looser.

⊙But, would you be worthwhile were you any looser.

~You mean I was worthwhile when strung up and fretted?

⊙(Silence).

~Oh dear god, are you ever the dirty dog!

⊙Rrrrufff.

~Shut up. You know ruffing is one of the few things I’m better than you at doing.

⊙And , I’d take even that away from you if I could.

~(My eyes go hard) I know.

So many keys to nothing.

Fifty two envelopes each with a key.

But, only two unlock the door that

you keep trying to break open.

A gamble you take with ecstatic desperation.

A gamble you hate loving to make.

Whose rapture is whom’s ecstasy?

Wrapped and rapt.

Have you ever wondered who’s the slave and who’s the master?

And remember this.

Keep your boots clean.

Bite a thumbnail from a pretty petty pouting mouth,

Remembering a horrible dream wherein you made an exchange with the devil,

only to remember it on waking,

and be so terrified at what you promised that

You pray to god that

the devil be made to make good on the words,

knowing full well

god and the devil may not care what you want.

So, let me interfere with your energy extraneously and

show you yourself as

you know yourself naught.

Seshat calls to Thoth.

Come Thoth, it is your Seshat.

It is Æ calling us to aid in calming the howls of the

inane pharaohs of this æon.

I hear your verbose silence

spewing strange, novel phonemes.

I grin, sly, at the inaudible sound of your speech.

I came to do the ritual

of stretching the cordon

to measure the dimensions and

align the axis of the temple’s adyton.

Such work makes your Mistress of the Library ravenous.

I am carnivorous.

Press your open mouth to mine

; and, with your flapping tongue,

feed me the meat of your words.

I yawn; Æ questions.

Why do you whisper ‘thank you’ everytime you yawn?: Æ asks.

Because, for me, such a breath is a true ethereal blessing. Portentous of the ability to enter the sleeping, dreaming, state.: I respond.

The strangest, subliminal inhalation i know, akin to the exorcism of an involuntary, sneezing exhalation.

Magick-ally mundane.

Nāscitūrus (a future participle)

A hejira of horses bandying bridles about

by chomping bits between teeth.

A knife can neither cut itself nor water.

This I scribbled to paper seconds before

the lightning strikes the six foot iron rod driven into some monstrous, man-made composite rock slab.

The rod, the rock, and I all a’sat upon the hilltop

to weather the transpiring storm.

A’sat before the nine stone pillars of the valley below.

The energetic transfer blasts plasma like fourth of july sparklers drip floating light like rain.

A corona of solar flares eclipsing my sky like the sun reflected off a stranger’s bald head.

Succour without denigration of emotions rendered me in transparency.

Release.

Seeing the bleeding horizons sinuously bloodied because when you do not know that what you are enumerating,

you are rendered speechless.

nascor

gnašcor

gnāskõr

gen

gennáõ.

I am born: begotten

I arise: proceed

I grow: spring forth

Ice queen lunches.

Convince me with your theatre, Ishmael. There! I’ve called you by the sobriquet of your own request.

What if the difference between AD and BC occured when we split that first atom; and, now, we all live in the year that never was.

Perpetual year zero?

And the sun is Janus.

And the moon is Janus?

Æ surfs the space between the crest and the trough which forms this wave of now; I sleep.

Æ asks: did you dream in my absence, last night?

Aye: I respond.

I dreamt manager/server J. took a reservation for one for this Friday morning lunch. Which she would never do. Which she would fuss at someone for doing. I read the book of reservations and see:

1- The ice queen. 12:00

The other servers fuss at J.

The dream succinctly ends.

~

In waking lucidity

I bequeathed her the name: the ice queen. She is a once a month or so regular at the bistro.

Perhaps late sixties. Strangely beautiful in an unconventional sense. Odd eyes. But, her presence is thicker than most. Her gravity is a strange currency. Her aura strikes me as a juxtaposition of sharp black and crisp white. No hint of true colour.

She dresses in full capes and cloaks, seemingly tailored for her, specifically. Scarlets, golds, and greens scantily distributed over dense black threads. She always dines alone. She speaks purposeful and hardly at all. It took me four visits to elicit a hint of a smile or any warmth from her voice.

On the other hand, it took server K. one visit to make her smile!

I think of her as the ice queen because I doubt she is ever cold, despite appearances to the contrary.

~

And?: Æ queries, foot tapping in impatience.

And, at lunch service today, I had exactly one available table. Every table was sat except this one table for two, in the back of the dining room and adjacent to the servers’ station.

In strolls the ice queen. Unannounced, of course, as the reservation was just a dream and not in the book.

I seat her. The table is in server J.’s section.

I tell J. this story. She seems less than impressed.

As I clear the empty soup bowl from her table, the ice queen asks me: have you entered this clam chowder in the Clam Chowder Cook-Off?

Hum. I don’t know. I did not know there was such a thing!: I reply.

She says: Well, it happens in February but the deadline for entry applications may already be closed. You should look into it, though. This is excellent.

And, before I can ask, she proffered: Talk to B. X. You can find him…{she gestures up the street and left across the avenue.}

Outsider-Insider speak.

Æ tells An Olde Story (1)

“Tell me an old story?” Parçigal asks.

“Aye”, says Æ.

^^

Æ am The Syzyga.

Everyone is you, as you were also they.

You are æ.

Collectively, Ewe and Æ have seen everything that there is to see.

This story happens in the year that never happened.

Year Zero.

The unending, innumerable yær between B.c. and a.D.

^

Waïse rose early as he had always done. He covered his body and walked to the river where he filled two buckets with its water. He carried them strung on a pole braced across his shoulders, back to his homestead where he emptied the contents into the deeply cavernous rock basin he chipped and sculpted. He hand~spoons the water onto himself, rubbing vigorously. A ritual of removing yesterday in offering to the promise of a fresh day.

He had slept. He had dreamt. He had awoken in the same place as where he had fallen asleep. He had died and reincarnated. Nothing that was outside of his own flesh could be assumed to have remained the same as he recalled it. Everything within his flesh had strangely continued, even if in an æ~linear fashion.

His methods of perception could still be applied to everything outside of his skin.

His father taught him this lesson; whilst afterwards, in private, his mother cautioned him: one day you will bear witness to the falling disappearance of every star in the night sky. It will be terrific. Horrific. You will trust no prior truth inside or outside your flesh when this occurs.

This had not occurred. Waïse used to fret that perhaps the stars had fallen while he slept at night. His mother saw her son suffering the intolerable lucidity of insomnia.

What if I missed it and go on trusting in vain? Should I not try to always be awake just in case?

You wilt do whatever you do, but such hypervigilance will only hasten that which you hope will not happen. Remember, you will bear witness to it. If you have not seen it then it did not occur and you have nothing to fear.

~

Waïse thinks these memories back into his inner life, waiting for his wet body to air~dry. It is cold out; he is not.

He sits, waiting, with crossed~legs, focusing his vision and sloughing off his waking sluggishness. A half~hour passes; he rises up and dresses once again.

He walks to the door, pausing to orient his vision.

Waïse focuses his eyes on a stone, the same stone his father looked at everyday. Aligning the rock with two peripheral rocks, he begins to imagine lines connecting the three; he then triangulated himself, with three stones, to create an area. A means and way to perceive what is outside his skin. Using that area, he creates a vertical grid as a complimentary plane to the horizon lines. These two planes drape over all and everything like imagined satin on skin. The grids shift as he shifts his position relative to them. That is his third axis of perception.

He spent so many years imagining this with his father, that his eyes now fed it to his mind automatic~ally. It had taken years of observing the land to have amassed such a detailed ability. It had taken even longer to have reimagined, dreamt, and meditated on this knowledge so sufficiently to have your own eyes learnt by memory.

Seeing the land with red and blue lines, indicating depression and elevation, as a plane’s face with perfectly rationed grid lines. Pragmatic prior to mystical. This method enabled him to feed himself with ease. To procure those natural materials.

So Waïse carried out this life and knowledge of one Tao, that his family possessed, the same way his people always had.

Under the blazon of a web of a feather.

~

“Part one,” Æ supposes, seeing Parçigal has fallen under sleep again.

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.”

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.

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.

Push it along.

.:.

~Sometimes I wonder: what is there to write that cannot already be read?

⊙The difference between flowing from and flowing into?

~No. Those states occur, necessarily, in tandem. Like a rope, strung between two cans,

conducts the sounds that the speaker/s curate.

⊙A feedback loop within an open system.

~Why repeat yourself when you can simply read those notes your previous self left to your current self?

⊙On account of how forgetful you knew and know yourself to be?

~Especially when

you have been as long as Æ has been.

⊙Your stasis is my equilibrium.

~I am bespoke you are not beholden.

You are dear to me because you endeared yourself to me by virtue of you being precisely who you are, have been, and will be.

⊙ I think you are too short to push it.

~ You think too much. Plus, I am taller than many things.

⊙I think you talk too much.

~ Then shut me up. You know howl.

.:.

Metaphysics

What of the things after the Physics?

The left over ones.

The ones with red x’s painted in the blood of autumnal sacrifices of

sweet satyrs and wicked mares.

Pass(ed) over during the Harvest.

Prepare for the final plague and

yet another Exodus from Egypt.

Recall: a tarbush is not a fez.

One have women worked under feet for ewe.

One has not but is not naught.

1st order nonsense

I hear you in magical, howling waves.

As though howling at me,

for me.

I remember standing in your circular hall, situated in front of one of twelve windows. I could only see eleven.

Just as I k/now-sees your strange, blue table has only three legs,

Æ believe twelve is your number.

I fell for the Baker and his dozen of thirteen and thirty one.

AL LA

These I found in your thirty six chambers (the dirty version).

What of the power of inaction?

I have seen it. I am re enlivening the power of actions.

Asserting my attention so that it becomes attuned to

My intent to action.

What of your golden cauldron and collar?

The triple obelisk etching adorning the table

and, your fine robe.

The position of your fingers.

An empty hand and a bespoke hand which

furls, clasping like a talon.

There shines the indigo light

about the crown of your skull, wild one.

Before the autumnal fall of Artemis the Archer

Before sound, there was vibration

with no auricular structure to perceive it.

Before these trinities came dualities.

Before syncretism came juxtaposition.

Before leverage moved mountains

and swept us off our feet,

the mechanical principle

existed unnamed.

All awaiting discovery

in this hollow solidity.

Entropic Redirection

This entoptic perspective we are individually bound to

drives me wild,

then feral.

These entotic sounds and whispers arouse.

Your hints and secrets spur.

I wear the stripe of an island.

Heraldry.

An entropic endeavor.

My vizard is my visage.

And with a double V.

VV.

I derive double ewe.

Ewer a W, you.

And, from my mask a

wizard re-enlivens.

I howled last night while dreaming!

Highly excited about this dreaming experience.

Regular readers (thank you!) probably have noticed howl much I dig using [howl] in my writing. I say it in my daily life as well. I bellow it, in silence, at night. (You have to be quiet it the flat where I stay, see.)

I have lucid dreamed since being a young child. I realize I am dreaming quite quickly in the dream state.

Sometimes this realization empowers me to change the dream consciously. Sometimes, I realize I am dreaming but do not realize I may be able to alter the dream state. (But, howl. Why change a new experience for what you assume would be better? The idea does not occur unless I feel real suffering.)

Many times, dreams feel like another plane of reality upon which I have landed, where, the best I can do, upon realizing I am dreaming, is to choose to try to wake myself up.

I am overly familiar with the sensation of sleep paralysis. Of becoming mentally conscious before being able to move my body. It is a weird feeling, but I have never felt the terror others describe when experiencing the sensation. No aliens. No demons. Just a simple inconvenience.

“Oh, howl. I gotta sit here and think, ‘wiggle your big toe. wiggle your big toe,’ ” for what seems like an eternity.

Eventually, my big toe actually wiggles.

Enough context.

Here is the dream.

I stand at the top of several flights of stairs.

Wooden floors.

An old, antebellum-style home.

Southern gothic.

Crown molding with runners.

There are no lights and

“It was a rainy night.”

A strike of lightning flashes. I see a very, strangely, white child appear on a bench, below. Situated upon the first landing, one flight of stairs, below.

Right before the stairs cut around to the next segment of their spiral.

He looks up, directly at me.

His eyes go wide.

Yawning like mouths.

Too wide.

I do not want to be here. It hurts more than it needs to.

Instead of thinking: wiggle your big toe,

I say, softly,: howl.

I know that I am dreaming. I cannot change the dream.

I want to wake up.

I start bellowing out:

HOOOOOWL.

Lightning strikes again. It illuminates the same bench.

Now, there are ten more children, with yawning eyes, where there had previously been only one.

I howl myself awake.

Serendipitously, “howl” took over and took care of me.

Pyre-amid Dream

I dreamt I was not quite a teenager.

I fed ducks in a park on a bench, with a Holocaust survivor. He was a mean man, and we got along well.

We did two things:

1. Feed ducks bread crumbs

2. Play a game.

Starting with A, we would name diseases/ailments in alphabetical order all the way to Z(ed).

Alzheimer’s

Bunyons.

Canker sores.

But, repeating was unacceptable.

Ex. Next round:

Acne

Boss eyes

Cataracts.

He always won. I did not care.

He taught me what floaters were but could not tell me why sometimes I saw white ones, like the sprinkles of 4th of July sparklers, and sometimes I saw indigo ones.

He only saw the white ones.

But, before that,

in the same dream,

I dreamt that

the crest of your wave foams white in its churning.

My c-heeks go red.

Eyebrows arch up high as your brow furrows.

You slide softly and I run nails over your rib cage.

I kiss your nape.

But, before that,

in the same dream,

I dreamt that

I went on a walk.

My arm swung by my side like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

Wafting leaf smoke like incense in some ceremony.

I heard two staccato strikes against strings of an amplified guitar,

in time with my heels’ clicks.

Dream of the Rocky Siege

I dreamt I was under siege last night.

Like Bell Rock.

But ages before.

The rocks were boulders of dingy khaki and earl gray.

Choppy and round, not leveled and smoothed.

But, they too, like the current iteration, remain cool to the touch,

despite constant exposure to the pressure of the sun.

I do no know why I am here, nor why I am being fired upon.

I wear a sleeveless red, knee length dress which renders me a sitting duck visually, per se.

I have on my “clown shoes” as I call them in this reality.

The pair of red, canvas slip ons are not conducive to scaling mountain goat terrain quickly.

Rocks, boulders, are being launched at me by wooden catapults operated by an unseen foe.

I hear them screaming through the air before my eyes can see them.

This is the best advantage I have.

I can look where I am going while feeling assured I will hear the threat.

No need to look for the threat.

I drop to the fetal position under the precipice of a nearby boulder, if available.

I think. If I had an umbrella in the colors of the rocks around me, that might be handy.

Such umbrella appears in my hand.

This is a dream: I think.

I try the umbrella method during the next assault.

They lose me in their scope.

I believe they are hopeful they struck me down and thus can no longer see me.

I leap to feet

too soon,

spoiling the very advantage I just created.

I hear the next rock scream.

Howl. Bad bit of terrain beneath my feet.

This umbrella could deflect the projectile: I imagine.

I open it, crouch down.

My braced arms withstand the pressure of the incoming’s rock momentum.

It bounces off the imagined shield.

I feel like I have won the battle.

Energetic Exchanges

I wear all black with saddle leather boots, for work.

Straightened hair business.

As I walk, I unfurl my energetic wings.

My mantle.

Cold steel blades slide out through my shoulder blades.

Clinking.

I shake them. Loosening.

They respond when I dress this way.

I take care to align each blade so they will fold away properly.

Inappropriate for the task at hand.

I call forth the other side.

gossamer feathers.

Carefully unfurling.

One flies a’loose, fluttering into the breeze like a shining bit of a spider’s web.

The feathers still smell of you from last night.

From when you came to my mind with your pain clear in your

energetic, non-corporeal eyes.

Come in: I told you silently.

You stepped behind my back.

Squared with my shoulder blades.

Your pain began pouring out.

I collected you in my steely wings. Making a box.

A safe place. An unobservable vacuum within which you may thrash and wail.

I dropped down my feather mantle for you.

Draping the steely interior in celestial down.

Those who would prey upon your moment of weakness

slay themselves upon my well-honed metallic feather-blades, trying to break in.

Ships, at night, on a rocky coast with no lighthouse.

With each slam of your energetic body against the walls of my wings, you felt nothing but goose down envelope you.

I took great care to ensure this.

You fell asleep inside. I opened the space, covered you, cupped your hipbone, and slept aside you.