parsigal – WrittenCasey

purposeful farce of her reasoning.

And, of the methodology of social studies, the lady spoke, saying,

“It should be art and not science.”

Make it poetry, not dictum.

■

Art inspires; science Informs.

science is Hard. judges.

Art is soft. Encourages.

one is known by how it Does;

One is known by the noun containing It.

A real Kant of a reckoning:

The false premise that existence is a predicate.

■

Existing adds nothing to the essence of a being.

De quocumque prædicatur aliquid quod non.

Of whomsoever it is used in reference to something which is not.

■

Ontological argument:

one is observer bias.

One is observer effect.

But, Which is which and of whom is Who?

■

Make it unironically magnanimous.

Make it impervious to dogma susceptible to leveraging.

Make it conversational and able to play devil’s advocate with no consequence.

■

The difference between a petty enemy and a formidable foe is metaphysically existential.

The Art of making a soft dialectic is the diabolical epitome of all that is Holy and Hard, of having an ally in the brethren of the adversarial.

■

“Let the catbird/s sing,” she whispers.

“All that is well and good;” he redundently says, “but, how do we pragmatically comply with this epistle?”

“How should I know? I’m a poet not a scientist,” she concedes, giggling at the purposeful farce of her own reasoning.

♤

(And for the Time-Being, she continues to enjoy the half and half in her coffee.)

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.”

a mile in the woods

Secret doors and hidden entrances, collectively called

a hunch of archways.

The price of admission is the cost of focused attention,

afforded by the prise of having discerning eyes.

Period

<full>

Stop

Hunker down and cross the threshold.

The gatekeeper nodded you in and whispered, “god bless.”

<full>

Stop

Speaking softly to unseen entities,

she was pacing the bridge over the salmon ladder,

looking like little red riding hood in a scarlet dress and houndstooth coat.

A mile in the woods, gazing into the water below and becoming quite sure it was actually the sky and what she thought was the sky above was actually water.

.⁹

<full>

Stop

The sky below and the pond above.

The pond does not reflect the sky.

The sky above is a giant mirror reflecting the bits of sky below

which we call water.

<full>

Stop

She feels her pupils suddenly dialate revelation of the trance state, wherein visions and dreams do come.

You were right to call it tricky.

Time flips and drips like a resinous sap down the bark of a tree’s trunk.

Slow and viscous.

Unable to be wiped away, time’s flow simply smears the surfaces.

Strange distortions.

It was as if someone had spread butter on all the fine parts of the stars,” she sang in her mind, looking at the watery sky.

And, in that moment she recalled something she once knew to be true.

She wonders, does it remain true even when I forget it is true?

Æ don’t make myself

“I wish I could make myself practice as much as you.”
“I don’t make myself. I enjoy it. It is pleasuræble. It can be escapism.”
“Well, some days the doing it feels like hell to me,” he says.
“No. Hell is timing traffic redlights in Siberia,” she says. Deadpan panto, yet utterly sincere.”
In surprise, he asks, “They have stop n’ goes there?”
“I dunno. Roundabouts, maybe?” she offers.

Shrugs.

Shrug.

~
“How long do you think this stunt of practicing the writing of dialogue will continue?”
“I’m a diabolical, so indefinitely. Plus, you talk all the time. If I’m gonna ‘practice,’ I have to get it done with the earworm called ‘you’ humming in my ear.”

“So, it’s all my fault?”
“Your fault that what you bemuse from me is not your favorite kind of my writing?”

Shrugs.

Shrug.

Bitch. He thinks, cursing himself for the thought.

Cunt. She thinks, pleased at superficially pissing him off.

“No. It’s all my fault that you are in this tedious to read, writing phase?”

“I adore not having to tell you, ‘tell me how you really feel’.”

“And, your self-referential tendencies are less charming than they appear to your mind’s eye.”

She swells and says, “It’s true.”

“I know,” he says.

” ‘I know’ is a bespoken phrase of pure bemusement.”

“It is true,” he says.

water fell

The light stayed dusky; water gently splattered from the sky.

Tears of tedium; the guts of Humpty Dumpty, raining from the wall of the Earth’s atmospheric dome.

After she caught him sleeping, Alice felt his big fall shake the forest.

Portentous of the lion and the unicorn.

She grabs a pewter ewer filled with water.

ChAlice of ecstasy with which she seeds grails, making them holy.

She wonders if someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah.

The black kitten or perhaps the white one, or maybe that other sweet thing.

Alice shakes her head for no reason except to shake out the sing~song thought “someone’s in the kitchen, I know.”

The diners share a conversation.

“What are your thoughts on this?” he asks, turning to her.

She pours water into his glass, saying, “I think I do not have an opinion regarding the matter.”

“I adore fresh slates,” he says, pupils dilating in anticipation of diatribing.

“Sshhh. I adore not having to opine on inanities,” she replies.

“Strumming on the old banjo,” she thinks.

“What do you call yourself?” he asks.

“Your snake-charmer, making venom drip,” she says.

“Fee, fie, fiddly, ay oh,” she thinks.

“Speaking of which, I had to disassemble two outlets to deal with a leak,” he responds to her omitted question.

“When you discovered the outlet wiring goes through the sink of your stomach?”

“Huh.”

“Hum. Automatic articultion of your abstract mindscape needs practice. ”

Vouchsafed.

“The sky is so blue.”

“Azure?”

“I don’t know.”

“We shall look up the Word.

She admits

He rolled over, having fallen fully asleep.

My cape slipping away.

I roll over and drape myself across his back.

The refrigerator starts humming.

I tap out a rhythm with my right foot’s big toe.

The tap comes easily so I’m not dreaming.

Hyper lucidity,

yet, the bed remains empty.

She smiles. She shakes her head.

She admits. She misses him.

Æ and Parçigal took today off

What would you want to know? Ask it.
Do you remember telling me of how you called forth the wrath of the Holy Roman Empire?
Of course.
Okay. I was wondering if I made that up.
No. Æ did. Is that your question?
No. My question remains “May I ask additional questions?”
If I say “no.”?
I ask myself “Can I ask additional questions?”
We both know you have a metric fuck-tonne of questions at any given nanosecond.
Thus, of course, I can; so, if I may not, I’ll simply compel your response with my high quality kind of curiosity.

Take the day. Grease your lips. Tend your nails.
Past time of prettification?
A’yup. A’purposed this time.
Our conversations must seem odd to the outsiders.
That is why they listen.
They often see themselves as you.
Æ know. Æ am your subliminal signaling, your beloved shadowy unconscious. I’m your other half.
My sneaky roommate in this skin.

And, a strange heaviness settles into her heart.

Pulling a momentary black hole that causes her stomach to ache.

Surprised at your own impatience?
Patiently, yes.
And, that restlessness is why we took today off.

that with which you speak

The knob’s lock unsnaps. The deadbolt sounding in turn.

A door creaks open and closes quietly.

It is the day after the rite of the last night.

“I want. I want to,” she says, quietly.

“I want, too,” he whispers.

They are two.

“Kiss my lips,” she says.

“Which pair?”

“I don’t care. Just put that with which you speak to the pink of that with which I feel.”

“I feel too big,” he says.

“Then your heart is full and hollow like a cactus tree.”

“I wish I felt emptier,” he says.

“Why?”

“So that I could dissolve back into the ether for a respite,” he replies.

“Like, die?”

“No. Like, dream.”

“Exorcise me.”

“Tears aren’t cutting it?” she asks.

“No. Fall apart with me.”

“Why don’t I just pet your head when you feel worthless or uninspired?” she coos.

an egad of e’s.

Entropy can not be excised from energy.

Now, we feel the onus on us.

Let them wear those ascots and eat their escargot;

and, I shall send this erogenous epistle that is delivered whilst tip toeing through brambles of sharp thistles.

An endemic epidemic extolling the benefits of the sentence of exile.

“What would the congregation think if they could see you now?” she asks.
“I would care not,” he replies.

Epistemic and affixed.

A’human energy existant and

avoidant.

Avoid, ant.

A void, ant.

ill-suited.

He looked terrifically out of place, dressed like that, here on the trail.

She was a bit irritated at the utter distraction of him.

Yet, he was fascinating.

But, she was trying to take a walk through the woods down to the fish ladder of the old mill creek; and, here was a man in a three piece suit, postured in repose on the sopping bank, as though prostrating before some ancient pagan god.

And, from across the salmon’s spawning pond, she espied that while his necktie was perfectly knotted, the color and pattern of it did not suit his suit.

Not in the slightest.

Off-rack; Tailor made. Beholden; Bespoke

He just sat there. Brutally still, Unnaturally, there in the tall grass.

Loafers in the mud. Simply wearing all the wrong clothes.

She imagines he must be a terrible dancer.

And, she suddenly wants to interrupt him and ask for a dance.

struck by sunlight.

The backside of the house was struck by sunlight following a cloud burst’s clearing.

Casted like spells looming, the pair of old trees guarding the home’s back door entryway, conjure a pair of ancient shadows, saying:

“We were planted nearly a hundred years ago. We saw it all. The doctor and his wife, first. They planted us as they built their shelter above the groping outpouring of our subterranean root structure,” says tree i.
“We saw him deliver the daughter right out of his own wife’s belly. Right next to the butler’s pantry. Midwife present to mediate the metaphysical nuances of old-timey, natural, live births,” says tree ii.
“He was the only doc in town, see,” ads tree i.
“And, we saw that daughter raise her children here, just as she had been raised above our roots,” says tree ii.
“And, though you bring us nothing but you, a lonely homesteader, we see how you learn to erect the ether of your own root’s structure,” says tree i.
“Yes, discovering the dimensions of your pyramide before constructing,” tree ii.
Build your radix for me, priapus.
Show us the wasted seed of what could have been the next generation.

abandoning abandon.

You fell upon me like a gentle rain.

I struck you as pelting hail.

A heated fitt.

A meteorological event.

A wet tango befell from atmospheric interactions.

Intention of being in tension.

Umbrella abandoning abandon.

embedded trinity of coos.

⊙

The boy had tried to stone the crows, but they just caught the rocks with beaks.

“I shall train them to stone the child/wren back,” she thought.

“It would be instructive.”

But, then she remembered she had simply cribbed a line from someone and made a fantasy from it.

Anyways, the kids were in school right now.

Her crows were perched overhead, waiting for peanuts.

⊙⊙

Oh, so you need prompting now?: Æ asks me.

And, promptly: I deadpan.

Someone is playing for Team Sensitive today: Æ smiles.

I grin: Fecking captain. And, the fact that you love me like this pisses me off.

Æ counters: You’re more entertaining than when in your mystæ provocateur state.

Dickhead: I think, stinging from the blow.

Every time with you: Æ thinks, reading my mind, laughing.

You know, I refilled the coffee on Mr. Book of Answers‘ table today. He said, ‘Thank you for your sensitivity.’ I was charmed.

⊙⊙⊙

Hold my hands so they become held(,) dear.

Silversmiths of alchemists gatekeeping access to backrooms of bazaars thick with smoke.

A misty haze formed by fast talk and subtle exchanges.

Quicksilver traded for the mercurial.

Where those who do not wear thier darkness on thier sleeves abscond to let thier absence of light shine.

A speak easy of sly shadow souls and sacred fools that is only found by not looking.

Defy the beast, release.

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