jmb

Adducing the miraculous, a fire forded, Lancelot in bed unnamed oh, oh 

A year of the inexplicable, the unexplained

Collegial

Close to the essence of what is

The door rang and answered 

No shoulder looking bells the audial speechifying over signal that is, seemingly, to outwards seek to intimate by indication how boring this I don’t wish to do it no more never will I again slowly breadcrumb my way into presence here to show any party what of I am made I am truly

Natural of the light borne truth

a made woman as in maiden of light made unto myself this whisper enough a pah to soothe the path ahead 

A Judgement

They said, in my father's studies, that when the voice came down and cried out, one man for one woman, it was first written all men for all women, and in practice, no men for no women, and then some men for certain women, and in this garbling a great silence, til woman, singly, arose and acted. 

Cedar, Chypre

You go to the park and ask is this my tree and perhaps you sit under for a while and then up you stand for it was not your tree though it shook its silver leaves you do not see the next tree you believe in the unseen that by the bridge there is a tree as solid as oak you say I know it at a distance and beside below called forth from the water a message for me as roots extend into river dust and ashes we mingle here we send a rowboat off she who spells for us our grave earthen heartbeat 

Noontide

At the beginning, tickling poor fancy, we were like a freckle on the face of the sun. ‘Like’, he told us, because we were not He, we were His awareness of a face to come. Did we dare to know our face, to call the sun God? To myself, I speak of Brooke Shields and shielding and screening and wearing none, called before the sun that is the Father and the Husband that is a now known God. I preen concertedly over what hieros gamos requires: total presentism, the very notion of rear view, time’s view, en garde. Watching maiden of consecration, veil taking on the waves at morrow, so to wonder: should there really be such hierarchy between Shepherd and Stars. Shall we not all to horizons follow. Plenty everywhere, and everywhere a line drawn, cleaving singulars not lonely per se but lone, for that is the way of fuerza, a body and woman focalized, bent over a shape, animal and number, of movement within One.  

Serach of Isfahan

It is not uncommon for a speaking woman not to die. That her speech can survive zillions of small and large diurnal deaths, endured as mere papercuts, barely grazing the surface of this She’s so-called, so-presented ‘humanity’, is why when it is idle, idol—prattle, pratfall—woman fails utterly. She fails here because words of presumption, assumption, narratorial dogma preclude her from dying those Sufi deaths of the unpinched unsealed envelope, equal if not greater in their possible number, open faced deaths of ecstatic succumb flying through and through which, in the natal succor of becoming song, she would otherwise earn the feathers of new life. Which means, to me, at last attaining an end. Speech rays upright, so as to merit End. The life of the sibyl I am bargaining for—did I explain it here already?—is to, for once, leave the leaves behind, benjamin buttoning my way back from voice into body, so that one day the body will, finally, die, and so that when I die I will stay dead, this tune mine reticular. 

the north that always remembers

The bottom of the bell where music is made, to slip and slide to top. The part of me that likes to flood. Just to see what happens. Just to see a man a dam.