Lol Stein at Liberation

Among the many and in the dark, we seek The Pearl, unspeakable, she speaks.

Buddha of Wedgwood

I have spoken of this before, so what. Of the welter of the world, bowl-shaped, it is so easy to margarita salt its rim and lick.  

I sip.

I let what passes come to. 

I am hopeful, shaded by the spear of hope. Or is hope a basket, am I to collect from basket, weaving...and then, no spear, pear, silhouette of woman, she ever the transducing device, magnetizing minerals. Photographs ultrasonic, umbilical.

From Zoe Leonard, Aerials, 2018 Hauser show in London, leading to more lesbians on Brighton's pebbled beach, another story entirely...

And the root: not when will I be old enough to tell it, the story, stories, but to have one, told to me.

she

true, I am afraid of the red lady, taunting or haunting me since sister's wedding. who is she, exactly? there are clues. one can only be afraid of oneself. the years I would not use fire, refusing to lick my own flame. nonetheless, much danger here, so no we are not merged, I do not plan on that, there is a grafting from another party, or an attempt to graft. the astrologers always warn off red: Martian. sexuality stripped of its veils, only to reveal itself as veil. implications of jilting and also, death. yet these aspects, righteous as they are, seem innocently irrelevant. Is dancing with me. distraction, she an agent of distraction, an agent of...what is the life force being a current question. 

I do not wish to constantly re-tread. why will she not disappear, I thought the goats were making her. it is because her teaching remains unknown, if knowing that the messages—the lady's, and that of the pregnant goat—are interrelated, and were I to parse them, in full, what would happen to my fear. isn't the whole point to face it, yet I do not know her face, for they know not what they do, what we, really, are.

sibyl in her place

to loosen, let go of, where else untouched

fortitude amid or

Laughing at the pain of the last few weeks, maybe the pain of a lifetime, such that I became a Marian Christian briefly and so, was briefly scammed, meanwhile self-liberation really very simple, and how long it takes me to clear. as for the many miracles I seek out, seeking to live in their realm, when we live in their realm by right, by work of love, devotion, worship: a joke on what in me remains small and frail and human, for all a miracle ever be is mirror seeking thee

The whistle

I began again to wonder at the whistle, not that it was any louder than usual, no more than a tremor. Only that after a long period of drone, succumbing to drone, living only by drone, I had started to hear the whistle somewhere else, somewhere I knew not. And as the whistle died down again there I was, back at that strange house in France allergic to all and to myself or between Zurich granite shimmers, wanting nothing, knowing nothing, unlearning my needs and wants, desirous of no end, for everything had ended, had passed, there was no future because no movement could happen there and so I shrank I bludgeoned, so the whistle went on. 

time no year

Dark magic, or simply, dark
and a fetid tree

The yule brings little more 

not so much expected just

the mere mumbling fact of aliveness

alive, in want said or must

and what then, to do about need