Guerilla Resistance

As we sat trailside, embushed,

surveilling the night for signs of life meriting ambush,

what appeared to be a lantern light appeared,

bobbing in the distance of night's dark water.

Ramald, our token amputee,

wanted to have a closer look,

but we conferred and advised against it.

Who knew but that our new mark

could be extremely dangerous, perhaps

a woman carrying her husband in a vase, or

worse yet, clutching a snow-globe to her chest.

Our small band could not afford to brook such chances.

The air was heavy with moist heat, positively

orthodox in its weight.  The smokers among us

tried their best to suppress expectoration.

Others were more relaxed, I suspect,

dozily dreaming of longhouses

and fresh bread baking over a fire subliminated

by the approaching lantern light,

while Ramald quietly spoke of a dream he had:

"Being a husband makes

the free use of phrases like

'menagerie of pussy' problematic,

and I am no longer an ornament for barstools.

For instance,

disorganized ladies of sleep

come bearing temporal messages.

I am more interested in their hairpins

than what they have to say.

They pester me with daylong whispers

in a silvery tongue I can not uncrumple.

I become irritated with their insistence,

tell them they should wear more hairpins.

Imperturb, they reveal to me

their blueprints for a Trojan brothel.

I question the wisdom

in showing me their hand.

And don't they know that it is they

who must come to me?

I look around to find

I am comfortably seated in a brothel."

We had forgotten the approaching light.

Open Asylum

"Fearnaught repels in snowmite reveries,"

a flaky, can-shaking, cardamom-armpitted woman

spices speechfood at the intersection of "Nettled Nun,

Quinoa Quim."  Her rectum is

a wrack, wet paper pulped into underskirts.

But you came here to praise the crazy - not

taste them - and it is insoluble

that someone won't "give a frightened fuck for my husband,"

some nameless, wild turkey

on a bar-paned floor above another floor.  But

you came here to raise the deranged - not rehearse

them.  Are they the necessary mediums of what

we will not whimper or shout out loud

to unseen anyones on a street corner,

where some cold, saltwashed landhag holds

her final, curbstone redoubt, undoubtedly with purpose?

Though someone is able only to surmise.

It may be whole cloth, coin in can.

I Checked Her Settings in June

Play Me

Lyrics:

Calamitous white dress
a leaf in a book pressed
pressed to her bare chest
the shameless liberty of memory
the bride in adultery
(it wasn't me)

Vibrations: Towards a Musical Theory of Human Interaction?

Consciousness is the inaudible timbre of body.

All bodies being unique, so are the individual manifestations of consciousness.

This is why the same pitch, sounded by different individuals - though the difference may be subtle - is variably perceived in the experiences of others.

When I am a piano and you are a harp, what does this mean for communication?