Leibniz

The rainbow back a wards. meditating into the day. Into the light of day, the wonder of day.

in my father's house

the many mansions return, foreboding. has there been a storm? I look back upon these writings—how much has transpired without being spoken of. and what else is required to further.

Every bush

Walking wide eyed into the waking into Sun, towards the Father and the feet, touched down (thank you thank you Este)

Eternity's gate

The palaces, the citadel, the lapidary, the signet, the stone. Myriam in Submission—every blowjob as if the first. A holiday, hers, almost.

Unrelated, yet bound. Crossing over, where does the time go, when does she debark.

Forgive us darling we're all crackers

So says my grandmother at the speculative last. In her kitchen as never-dying-deathbed, waiting waiting loverlike, Candy Darling's hospital end. No that's not what this here is about. 

Only that she is correct, insofar as for a we that includes myself, cracked too is my povre shape of whatever you would call this period. A snow cone that is a flower, on fire, coals, bleary...crackling the ice no longer concealing—merely to enclose.

Poin ter

Every day I wake up thinking about the finger that led them to the field. (Ann Lee)

The pantomime

It is possible to have new stories, yes, but from these, even, we slip out, off. My mother, correct on that front: ever the runaway bunny. To let herself be body-object-study. Stone tossed dwelling within the well of the feminine, impossibly leaden. For in fact the stone was never tossed, not yet, merely that she stirred, began to spurt. More curious to be tied to a tree. And the tree, to weep? Here, reaching there is only reach. 

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 drink.  

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, Albertine, another story entirely...

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