aristo

How many theses are there, now, on Gladys Kravitz of morning glory circle...? 

The stationary feminine lapsed in magically propulsive femininity; that knows and is told it cannot know, sees and is made to unsee, plot swiftly capsized, collapsing into take your medicine, so intones her husband 'Abner', commander, blot it out, for the little lady doth be crazy (ancient Didi-Huberman). In an establishment of character—necessarily foiling—observation, intuition and reception are assumed to be, must be, malicious, finger-pointing and accusatory, drawing up binaries between words and actions or things, and so, meted in counterclockwise fashion, a would-be, could-be Watcher, witness, companion to enchanted expression is born swallowing her chin, the very inverse of caricatured wiccan protrusion...and as her long nose, pure metaphor, pokes in, goading those of imagined warted persuasion to, Bisclavret-style, grab and honk it. In fun.

To encase Sam's secret, she must be convinced of her own powers (a late Season One episode), or, failing at all basic faculties, of her own derangement.

So here is the thing about The Show, about any antinomian container stationed along our highway to an End: to render certain principles—the omnipresence of the irreal—as clear and true, in dressings of the norm, someone is made to butt the joke (there is also, here, the protective valve of Spiderman the musical, suffering actors swapping in and out). As humor always functions, this butt is, in her way, just a tinge removed from median flavor, and yet its enforcer, awaiting a kinder story, one that would nourish humble affinities across the many poles or stations of awakening rather than this version—finally benighting—of backyard silencing and separation. 

a kaleidoscope of convention

While you were speaking we were busy pecking our nests

No, we were speaking and you, whittling dumb thumbs

Allow my heart to rest

Humidity depriving the nation of its scansion

to verse the bleary anew,

what James Hillman calls 

in the March for Cash

the loser class therapists are 

left to contend with

On a night of future upset 

(in approach of its suggestion)

I meet a woman who says she is an absurdist painter

I like things that hail from other things 

I tell her this

'Hail' here a paraphrase of the post, made relevant by proximity to discussions of its literal manifest

Since passed

In Venice and Colorado, or Colorado in Venice, Max and his paving stones

For I think of colonnades dangerously often

Dangerous in their 'mystery', their impossible shade

words of the hour

year or century

jm basquiat

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.