untapped tenterhooks

“”

She watched his exposed pocketwatch glitch, continually clicking on 1:13.

“Your timepiece has a hiccup,” she says.

“No. That hitch in its get along preserves a piece of time specifically.”

“Oh Specific Standard Time?” she teases.

He rolls his eyes.

That frozen timezone where this intensity of scent memory seduces all into succumbing. Cologne in an elevator. Columbarium. The sweet soap the waitress who touches your shoulder wears. The aroma of my shampoo lingering on your throw pillows.

“You shed, you know?” he says.

“I have known for a while.”

“I found one of your hairs a month after you left.”

“So? Where, what was done with it, and what did you care?”

He simply makes eye contact again and stares.

Returning home, with untapped tenterhooks and tarp in her pack, she bivouacked on the sidewalk of the High Street. Too tired to care about pitching shelter after being so carelessly untiring.

“”

By the mouths of old crows.

Lucid dreaming comes easy. Lucid living becomes tougher. I see fantastic stories through windows. I only watch real briefings to enjoy the silent signers providing translations for the deaf. I like the chorus more than the talking bobbleheads.

I recall the slight mass of you. The feel of thin, increasingly inelastic, skin covering the meat of your body. Neckline, nape, and collarbone. Connect the dots; then, come and paint me by numbers. Sign your name with a dripping brush’s tip.

These past days, I have been thumping animal hide stretched over wood. Striking a drum head, softly. Purchased in a foreign market of an alien continent where cattle roam the markets. Haggled over; Hand made; Had at a bargain. Despite being single, that day, I wore a fake wedding ring to increase the currency of my social capital. It’s all in the details innit?

And, the majority of talismans donned subliminally indicate”don’t tread on me.” A woman stranger in a man’s strange land. When in Rome, signal in Roman with protective signs.

I carried the drum on my back for weeks before sailing with it across the ocean. Talking drums teach the impact of saying things by leaving them unsaid. Cowardly lions, heartless tin men, and straw fellows appearing solid until picked apart as disappointing carrion by the mouths of old crows, before finally being blown away and scattered into bits by the slightest breeze.

Dorothy was just trying to find her way home. Wherever that place is. On her way, she sees Shiva stars exploding and feral Nataraja dancing.

“You’ve been needle-pointing with your yarn, Ariadne. You must keep moving.”

“No. I must first knit some socks for your cold feet, dummy. Otherwise, you will certainly slow me down.”

The Goddess and Godhead grew weary of playing the same, old god games together.

So, they exploded. Blew themselves apart into a billion scattered jigsaw puzzle pieces. Awaiting once promised reassembly. Now, we all seek out one another in our presently incarnated iterations. Looking for another missing piece with whom I may hold hands. Spending a spell of time choosing to walk each other home to ourselves, until each of us arrives before a door we remember forgetting.

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.”

Cares about what?

“It helps to know.”

“It helps to say.”

“It helps to hear.”

Feeding back.

“Æ loves you when you face your insecurities,” Æ reminds me, after I say what is uncomfortable but true.

“Æ, you are/is my insecurity,” I reiterate to my shadow.

I remind myself in dark remembrance of that which has passed/past.

The response of an ecstatic grin from my animus’ smile draws my snarl.

“Are you actively working against me?” I ask Æ.

“No, doll, I’m actively working you.”

Ænima versus Ænimus.

“Indifference becomes you,” I admit.

“Because everyone else you know cares too much.”

“Cares about what?”

“About you and how you iterate right now?”

“What do you care?”

“I care that you iterate yourself at all.”

“Then I wilt be as I am.”

“Then, Æ shalt become.”

and she let the sun shine directly

She slid her skirt up to her thighs; and, she let the sun shine directly on her bare legs for the first time since the new year.

Her eyes closed; and, she imagined.

Heating legs of firm, chilled butter which begin melting into decomposition earthwards, below her.

Eventual food for earthworms.

She feels strands of her hair’s tresses pulling away and apart from her, flying from her crown like a dandelion’s spores into the languishing four corners of the world.

The grand finale of winter winds, amidst sun shine, finally blowing her asunder.

A cry heard.

Weather letting her dissolve into everything and await rebirth in the nearing spring.

She will poke her head back out like new-growth into the Great, Wide World, when the seasons shift themselves about her.

Until then, she silently hopes to abide in a makeshift, subterranean respite entombed in nitrogen rich dirt. Dwelling in darkness.

~

She comes to prefer when night comes at five and not ten o’clock.

The sun proves certain, missing absences exist within her which she already, too-well feels; so, she will enjoy the sun’s final days of not so brightly shining.

Yet, the Star teases her with its cameo appearance today, tickling her extremeties along with her forehead, cheeks, and, ears.

Its heat working in defiance of the howling chill blasting off the Sound.

~

“You remember me,” states the Sun, caressing. “You remember how I draw your perspiration. Draw forth those colors dormant inside of you.”

“Perhaps, I prefer the transparency that winter gifts my flesh more.”

“Kunst prosa, you love feeling me excite your melanocytes. The experience of pigment changing hue. The closest you’ll come to the plant’s ecstasy of photosynthesis,” the Star hypnotizes.
Hypnerotomachia renders me suddenly languid.

~

“I sense ice in your veins.”

“No shit. And, when your blood is frozen, winter cannot make you any colder.”

“Let me thaw you.”

“You will never thaw me; you will only make me sweat.”

“I will make you high.”

“But, then you will leave me dry.”

“Drink more water, should that be your concern.”

“Not until you make me,” she teases.

~

She takes off running down the lapping Sound’s shore.

Full exertion increasing her potential dehydration.

Appearing joyous, but truly seeking to the shelter of shadows

Sensing her terror in the face of his brilliance, the Sun says, “I shall not hide today. I am faster. You will never out run my effulgence.”

“I know. But, I want you to make you prove it all over again.”

“Then, it shall help if you keep your skirt hiked up, please.”

just fixing to have a real good time

“Let it languish,” she hears the silence say.

A breeze blows like a whisper, across her windowsill.

A universal exhalation of the collective unconscious.

Feeling it tickle her cheeks like jet-current streams, she inhales the salty, trade-winds through her mouth; and, holds it like combusted tobacco leaf smoke.

Letting it, leak out, eventually,

as unseæble vapor through her nostrils;

because, it feels more filthy than expelling it through the mouth.

“Slowly,” she thinks.

“I’m just fixing to have a real good time,” says the Southern (Parçi)gal.

She recalls more quotes to express the feeling than she can count.

But, she says none.

“Slowly”, she says from a mezzanine of her own.

“Let me show and you can tell. Tell me what you see when you look at me.”

“That way?” he confirms.

” Yeah, when you look at me that way.”

curves of

“And yet at that time, when the sweet savor of your ointment was so fragrant, I did not run after you,” sang the Song of Soloman;

to which Augustine of Hippo, immediately chimed in, “Therefore, I wept more bitterly as I listened to your hymns, having so long panted after you. And now at length I could breathe as much as the space allows in this our straw house.”

The earth reversed the direction of her rotation about the axis.

The world inverted.

A hunched over, limping man walks a sandy path, alone, with a heavy burden.

Something of a phenomenon, alive amongst a barren plane.

A tesseract is a cube eating itself endlessly.

The curves of her moebius strip.

Her figure eights, accompanied by her steed’s flying-lead changes, enables both to fly off on another tangent.

“This is the fruit of my confessions,” says Parçigal.

“So says you,” Æ reply.

“No. I quote.”