Death Posturing

You’re done for. There’s one thing, then another, and there’s nothing after that.

What does that mean? A cleverly concealed pocket-knife could wiggle me away from a railroad tie-down, and suddenly my sour mid-life expiration could alter to paper-skin ancient, eyes pearled and body bent to occupy chairs that wheel and rock. Or maybe future-me belays from broken cells to cyborg, monocle red-laser eyes special-crafted to aggravate cats and melt thicker thoughts from enemies. Half of me bones braced for dusting, the other half sculpted new, locked in with hook and screw.

No: you’re done for friend. Tally your hoe for the waltz-step through endless white curtains before frail begets faint and both retinas blink blank.

Huh. Well, movies suggest quaint segments of life should be summoned from my switchboard for long walk companionship.

– A hair-pinned and pressed grandmother I never had, apron-clad and bespeckled and pulling a tray of cookies from an eye-level oven.

– Running around an endless oak my Midwest backyard didn’t know, not pursued by a bell-bottomed sister screaming and swinging a neon-green plastic bat.

– A chaste slow-dance sponsored by Hallmark, swaying driftwood to puritanical tracks bleating of love as candy-hearts and water-spun roses, embracing someone well-washed I wouldn’t love.

In this canned universe no one is giggling maniacally in a way that inhibits oxygen intake, and never at creatures who audibly sigh and scowl “Come on!” after eighteen agonizing minutes in a pharmacy line.

No. My friend, this isn’t a movie.

Switchboard triggered even still. Images summoned from sun-baked scalp:

– Me tent-locked during green-sky opening, water rushing underneath (vinyl surfing), testing stakes. Outside wind speaks a more threatening tongue and activated ears ask eyes to answer.

– Mambo bullwhip-crackling wet green ground to coax drummers furious as she summons lost Africa from belly slumber for Papa Legba. Oh, Papa Legba.

– Me fay-cozy between two monstrous redwoods, boots pressed to one trunk and back suction-cupping the other, daring tension to inch me upward, or rigid curve me catapult.

– Freshly plucked baby in my thrice-born arms, learning air without water. Me drinking in. Spirit lands unseen.

– Tomato caterpillars caged in Styrofoam egg cartons, round padded feet slow stepping fresh-clipped leaves for rapid gobbling post antennae inspection.

– Wild-haired man burdened by backpack, patterned and pierced, blue current skulking the street after me so I don’t leave – not then, not ever.

– Bodies thick on a fire escape suddenly more dangerous, talking in spirals about events that lightning struck uniform corpses to make us all mad magicians, striping our eyes, dotting our lines. Then many are two and touching.

– Lying on a blanket in the high desert plains, techno-blasted and cowboy-capped, dehydrated mouths calling sounds from lost dimensions where all are copper and exterior-wired.

So you’ve accepted death?

Not for a second. Three times this bell has rung for me, a stale drone from far-away towers eating air for the ankle-grip. Three times you’ve finger beckoned and I’ve snaked away in debt to doctors and water. I could still learn to swim a little bit better, could still highlight heart with a kinder crayon, could still find words to darken white pages (no curtains, no waltz) letter-sparked by anonymous alchemists to leave me better remembered.

Does any of it actually matter?

I can’t hear you. The sky is breaking. My palm boasts six stars.

No one’s read to me in awhile.


begging my brain to let you go and latch on to someone or something else, really this is ridiculous, clogging my own drains. Sick sticking memory of you and your old growth smell and your dance around yourself, this memory i color myself with, that i drape all over. in the dirty remains a single close-up of face and hands and their route, and i wonder if in a future-something i’ll still have that memory, buried in my unnamed insides to unearth whenever hormones and weather and a single fingernail of overhanging moon bring my selves just aligned.

Drinking Games of the Future Part 4 – Present Tense

Sitting in my own lap, thumbing through messages dispensed from self ankle-deep in almost-sleep. Dreamy awake state summons her most dignified 1940s radio baritone and announces: Present. What about the present?

Hakim Bey and Robert Anton Wilson and Carl Jung and Frederik Van Eeden and a thousand philosophers and dreamers and writers and dead white guys have argued that there isn’t any becoming, you already are, as a means of pressing face into the dog pile of present.

Of course, reading is not comprehension (remember those separate scores on standardized tests?) and I’ve never been the sort inclined to let others figure things out while I take them at their word. Especially dead white guys.

So: 14 hours of trance space and free writing. 150 pages scribbled and scrawled reveal Not Much in the way of worldly reflections. Instead somber mug slapped by sitcom, MadLibs filled in with fart jokes, ancient gods warning the studio audience when to laugh or clap. Still I probed for something nothing to do with me or any BECOMING.

Myth figures are stubborn.

Presently, my dear, you’re supposed to have fun. Shenanigans and giggles, Sour Sally! Look, that trumpet was blown years ago. Made a sound like ArrrrroOOOOO. End times take time. Mind yours. All you can alter is your here and now. Yours. The star of handwritten myths.

Awake. Present. Now.

Now: pressing finger to swollen spider bite, the first of the season but not the last, angry against sun-starved skin. Eyes rise to giant trees with turned down tops circled by hawks hunted by a furious murder of crows.

Present: dancing with other women conjuring maiden-mother-crone, and feeling shoulders previously trapped in permanent curl mimicking Lake Erie’s summer storm waves release and puddle floor, feet stomping memory and mist. The alchemy of sound and internal waterfall frees golden wings, and in a burst my howl unseams. The whole room is active alive and partly cloudy, Oregon’s always skies.

Awake: interacting with Named Trees, skin meeting familiar/familial bark. A message from the sticky top branches: why should dead gods and fanatics have all the fun? There’s plenty of story. What is your super power going to be, maker of legends, creator of myths? What will it be, today, for me?

Dream: speaking an alien tongue punctuated by clicks and intentional stutters, sliced by extended hums and aums that roll teeth over tongue. Charcoal stained hands hover over a table while giant cards slide and form towers and pyramids of cups and swords.

On Dreaming (1) – No Pilot

Waking hours I am conductor, coaxing independent instruments with wandering keys and reeds to crash into passable music.

Asleep my head is pure unfiltered noise, now with more pulp. Reckless unarmored, a slow motion owl-masked me stencils the first truth: hell is empty and all the devils are here.

No: come on baby light my fire.

No: so quick bright things come to confusion.

No: will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?

No: O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!


No, it’s not noise, it’s the complexity and conspiracy theory of a $20 bill, occult symbols clunking up against the head of throwback Jackson keeping scholars and hobbyists and anyone with a reliable internet connection busy for years. The decoding will continue until children are hatched, or a UFO lands and offers a cheap hands-in-the-air ride before fucking up LA, or they simply run out of time.

At night my head is two shotguns pointed at each other, distracted by a toddler with a fistful of daisies and a ring jumping dolphin that alters aim.

My head is a mirror in a mirror in a mirror, a single spinning prism twisting out rainbows and confusing the faeries operating (just) underneath.

My head is draped in white and black and purple and violet then white and black and purple again.  Seven veils, always aware of their presence and the buffer they grant my six eyes from the light of Waking World. Six and Seven is a Longish Story and zero is a better place to start.

August and the Day of 8

For the past several years I’ve written down my dreams, some of which are conversations that carry on for hours. In the first few minutes following waking I try my best to transcribe these ramblings, but they’re never coherent and weren’t meant to be. This collection of riddles and numbers came from a dialogue with Odin/Merlin, who exist as one and the same on Planet Amanda Dreamworld.

August and the day of 8, 2010 to start, 2011 to end. Set your clock to tremble. Eyes wide and ever chattering, blinking forehead wink. Will you rise orange like the cloud-splitting sun?

27 and the month of 8

9 to carry the 9

10 fastened to the 26

and 8 to follow


The 6, the 6, 10 and 26

Shake and erase – all emptied.

Listen well on august and the day of 8

when the final petal falls and summer surrenders and silver staff splits antler stands and ash covers the dust. Goodbye, kentucky fried. a single boom chased by a rumble confused as thunder turns all eyes skyward before the scream. Don’t hesitate to point the finger. A single A points to B. Ear to track for coming train. Did you feel it vibrate so close to your ear? Do you hear the whistle? Wet finger to sky, testing air. Nothing can prepare you.

Listen for the laugh track tumbling from the bumbling mouths of bookstore prophets. All skull-capped and rocking, tearing fingernails, waiting for the right question for the answer. He’s never been asked. He’s never been asked.

Ask him.

There’s no place to begin pacing. There’s no center to this stone. There’s no smell to trace this memory. There isn’t a map. There was never a map. Just a spiral and patterns in sand.

Pulled in from skyward glances. This is the bait. Do you see it dangling?

Call your glamours home. There’s no gateway to hold your linger. No tank for what would have been. There’s only boarding, seat 23A.

Stop waiting for your watery home.