Rainy Day Woman


When Lucy left the café, I saw her open her umbrella before stepping out into the rain. Her umbrella was red. Her long wool coat was black.

These colors, as harmony, stitched together by the rain, echoed within me for the rest of the afternoon.

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Come Wander With Me

Through grotesquely chapped lips, Bert whistled a bright tune, and managed to keep whistling with melodious tenacity as he and George walked.
What’s that tune?
I don’t know. Something I heard a long time ago.
It’s nice Bert real nice. And the fact that you’re whistling at all . . . my hat’s off to you.
George doffed his derby.
Bert continued whistling.
The two men walked.
Behind them, the toxic oasis, the Bird Woman, the town square, the monkeychildren, the stone trees, the hooded dead, yet none of it seemed real, or rather relevant episodes in the continuity of their blind migration. Those were fugitive spectral imprints from a series of dreams with no central dreamer at its axis, no governing entity to verify the images as viable, or hold them accountable for their claims to reality. Once upon a time was a paradox with no matching equivalents, and now . . . now, here they were, at present, the movement of bodies abused by the elements, Bert whistling a tune whose origins he couldn’t place, George relishing the sweetness of that tune, and what lay ahead of them the metronomic torment of nothing nothing nothing nothing, at one point Bert ceased his whistling to muse—How much nothing can a man take? then he immediately resumed whistling because that was one way to battle or divert or cover up the masticating saw-teeth of nothingness.
Then, something.
A crossroads.

Photo of Bert Williams and Geroge Walker
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This is No Ism of Any Kind

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Giantess

Between bewildered,

and the wildest seasons

of time and longing,

she derived dreamily

the spatial pulse

of God’s somnolent core.

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Stars

To glean, unerringly,
the ripe maternal genius
of soil,
she took lucid stock
of her origins
as a glamorous peasant
from the cursive fiesta
of stars–
Words, as sacrosanct bond,
became her,
if only to negligee
the remote and hidden contours
of her fable unending.

Photo of Clarise Lispector
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Fleur de Lis

This world,
beyond this world,
splitting into festive atoms,
called upon this woman,
beyond this woman,
to air with no discretion
the favored breath
of blue roses
falling.

Photo of Clarise Lispector
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On the Nature of Writing

Begin at the beginning.

Who am I? Who is the voice asking who am I? Who is the who observing the voice asking who am I? Who is the who eternally taking notes on the who observing the voice who is asking of who exactly who am I?

Abandon yourself with curiosity and zeal to a recursive plunge in Wonderland. Wander. Seek no answers. Make unbridled love to mystery. More than once.

Also:

  1. Follow your trespasses daily
  2. Set yourself impossible tasks and make spirited attempts

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High Priestess

In the lost country of typewriters,
and heresies of ink,
lived a writer named Clarise,
who, longing to sync
the pulse of God
with sentient spates of text,
broke off
and plunged soulfirst into a wonderland
of intimately recursive lengths.

Clarise Lispector and her Olympia typewriter
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To the Lighthouse

Here it is, finally.

A séance for the living,

real-time cinema for possessed bones

and sad visionless ghosts,

who are on the cusp of claiming

their spacious reams of empty,

and time-locked vagrancy.

The door behind the door has never existed.

It is a shadow, a tease, a mirage,

a trick of the light.

The way in, doorless, immeasurable.

In this chapter in the book that has gone unread for millennia

(we’re meaning between the lines),

there will appear an ancient-new breed of sorcerers, magicians, mystics, pagans, and witches,

and a summons for the renaissance of the psychic lighthouses

which are seeded in the green-fire country of our hearts.

Do not let the packaging fool you.

Your glyphic bones have flown long distances,

and played dateless concerts in the sky.

When opening your mouth, like so,

you will taste impossibly blue flowers falling out

to anoint secret ceremonies attended

by the world’s lovers and dreamers

of which we have plenty.

And you, you are living mythology,

a blessed paradox

of tensions aligned

to swing and sync

in music never-ending.

This is not a test.

Do yourself a favor:

Burn your old exam papers,

take a hissing blowtorch to the edifices

which falsely coronated the importance of these exams,

or better yet, forget the blowtorch,

the burning, the exams,

forget all of it

and just walk away,

going gently into that good new dawn,

its spawning membered

by your devotion

to the heart’s sired calling.

In this séance for the living,

dream love’s lighted labor

into your breath, and pauses,

and as you approach whatever necessary death awaits,

know that are you not alone,

and your life beyond the flirting veils

is one which demands the tenderest of braveries.

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Demasking is a Crime

 It was in the year _____ that a maskless society ceased to exist. Everyone was issued a mask. All masks were the same. A uniform anonymity, a sea of samefulness, or rather there was only one standard issue mask that came in three different colors. Red, blue or green. The color you were assigned to wear was based on zoning. Your location dictated your color.
When a child was born they had to be registered with the M.O.D. (Masking Ordinance Department) and implants would be surgically merged with the facial pores. If a child wasn’t registered, and the proper authorities found out, the child would be seized and enrolled in what was known as the Nursery. No one knew the location of the Nursery, or much of what happened there, but basically the Nursery children were wards of the government until they were old enough to be released back into society.
If you took your mask off, your facial pores would release an acidic chemical issued from micro-pellets which had been implanted into your face, and you would burn. And keep burning. The scalding would be excruciating, intolerable, and it wouldn’t be long before you put your mask back on, which would defuse the acid. The temptation of mask-removal had been the cause of many disfigurements, which of course remained hidden from public view. No one saw the wounds beneath the mask, no one played screaming mirror anymore to someone else’s unverified crises. Points of reflection had diminished in stature and vocabulary.
Signs were posted everywhere, rectangular slabs of mildly glowing metal that warned in red lettering—DEMASKING IS A CRIME

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