Ponying the Magic Carpet

I am a naiad kitchen god
sitting in a cathedral volcano;
it’s cape grotto s t r e t c h e s
into a Proteus forever chasm;

something like white
seal pup fur
lines the dark cabin of this
liminal, quantum
dimensional, volcano car;

Stalactites of icy zircon
hang from the cab’s
melty ceiling;

illumined by strobes from
aqueous street lanterns,
the zircon icicles look like
glistering Hermés leather,

or like an electric
Cartier diamond
with a trillion
geometric
facets;

Everything shines here;
rain crusts over the
windows in sapphires
from the microscopic
treasury of a miniscule
royal monarch;

I love the glittery
music that brings
me to this exquisite
unicorn place.

From the Crypt Files: X, Y, Z

Here’s an old poem I dug up for you. Enjoy.

i.

Xanadu blooms

with Whitsuntide white

racemes of monkshood

ii.

the Yeanling yens

for the beautiful yeoman

in a xenolith of time

iii.

eyes in a yashmak drink

clean sweet liebfraumilch

watch a year of grace

float by on a xebec

ix.

Zabaglione is made

with wine sugar and eggs

in a deco kitchen

x.

zephyrs blow zizith

around ankles

somewhere in time

The Time Thief; Chapter 2, Part 2

Serpentine rapids are careening over a precipice. Cubist brush strokes paint jagged rectangles: marbled Niobe is cast in a sculpture of plunging water. Opaque liquid is jumping away from darksome rocks.

The wind is making the waterfall descend in a blurry helix. Big charsafs of mist are coddling a dim rainbow. A lexicon of warped cacophony uncurls in Hera’s inner ear. Loud echoes are scintillating near the river’s dazzling shallows.

Sasha and Hera are riding their bay leopard appaloosa, Cupid; the horse is wading into the river, and Sasha is holding the horn of his saddle. The horse is swimming into deeper water. Sasha’s shoes are flooding. The rising water is forcing air up his trouser legs; his pants look like a balloon. Both riders are floating in the river on Cupid’s slick back.

Sasha is dismounting mid-river; he is sinking into the river’s clear depths; now, he is kicking furiously, and thereby propelling himself towards the water’s surface. He is above water, flipping his head violently; his wet hair is throwing an arc of amber beads into the warm air.

Sasha is grabbing the horse’s reigns. He is leading Cupid and Hera up to the sheer wall of water. Virga and mists are curling around the swimmers. Hera’s hair is pasting itself to her face like octopus tentacles. Sasha is swimming silently; his body is relaxing some: they are successfully circumnavigating the whitish, torrential curtain.

They are now in a hidden vestibule behind the falls. The grotto is slick and shiny, like wet snakeskin. Broken light is casting bars onto the shallower water within the grotto; panes of blue, translucent shadows are floating on the water’s surface.

Sasha is leading Cupid and Hera up to a smooth shore of black rock. Now, Hera is dismounting Cupid. The hems of her cloak and gown are dark with wetness. She is sopping wet all the way up to her lace bra. The only part of her that is dry is her mouth.

“I’m thirsty,” Hera says quietly.

“Here,” Sasha says tossing her a canteen he found in his saddle bag.

Hera is pulling a silver ring off of her middle finger. The ring has an infinitesimal mermaid engraving. She is handing it to her brother Sasha.

“Go get Xyla.”

Sasha is taking the silvery jewel in his slender hand. He is walking into an adjacent cave inside of the grotto. The cave leads to a narrow rock corridor; the corridor terminates in a round room of rock with a natural skylight. At the center of the room is a winkling pool of deep water. Sasha is casting the ring into leagues of blue. The ring is making undulating ripples in the pool; now, it’s sinking. He is waiting.

A shadow is appearing underneath the bedsheets of the water; umbra is darkening the epicenter of the pool. The androgynous blip is morphing into a defined silhouette; pool water is exploding into sun crystals. Wet arms slap the granite platform at Sasha’s feet. Green hair and eyes smile at Sasha; exhumed from the grotto’s crypt: a mermaid.

Xyla is a mermaid; she is a mixture of folklore and experimental engineering.

It happened years ago: Xyla lost both of her legs in a freak accident. Resultantly, her colleague, Dr. Yoshimoto, offered to do some prosthetic work on her.

Before the accident, Xyla worked in special operations as an adroit assassin. She worked closely with the doctor, as he was an authority on chemical warfare and genomic research. His work gave her an edge as a professional killer.

Dr. Yoshimoto’s operation on Xyla has rendered her a cyborg: Xyla’s green eyes are modified; she now has miniature computer screens built into her corneas; she has photographic lenses in the anterior chambers of her eyes: her crystalline eyesight is one-hundred times better than that of the average human’s; she is now a savant.

Xyla’s mermaid tail is made of scaly, bulletproof armor; the tail is a translucent flesh color, and allows a glimpse at her complex wiring; it is also highly flexible, waterproof, and fire retardant. The lower half of Xyla’s body is nearly invincible. In addition, Xyla’s lungs have been edited to accommodate a special respirator that allows her to breathe underwater.

Xyla is handing Sasha an infinity hoop of silver; he is taking the wet ring and sliding it onto his middle finger.

Now, Sasha is looking at Xyla’s brown face: long, blunt-cut bangs are falling below her eyes. Her bronze fingers are pushing her wet bangs away. Coruscating circles of deep green are looking at Sasha. Xyla’s eyes are analyzing his vital signs. She is detecting a pique is Sasha’s heart rate. Her skin starts burning.

Xyla is running nervous fingers through her big, tangled sausage curls; the sea green curls are falling over her armor-clad breasts. She is touching the back of her head which is neatly buzz cut.

“Sash, you don’t have to stare,” she says.

Sasha isn’t saying anything. He’s smiling and touching his face unconsciously. Now, he is raking his fingernails through his red hair.

“Sorry,” he says, “Oh! I remember, someone was tailing us earlier. Could you check it out? You know, go for a swim, and see what he’s up to? Not that I want you to go—it’s just you’re…”

“A robot,” says Xyla.

“No! No! It’s just that you’re better equipped for this sort of thing and–”

“Calm down. I’ll do it. You’re so easy. To mess with, I mean. I’ll be back.”

Xyla is diving into the belly of the pool. Minutes are passing in damp quietude. Xyla is appearing from the mirror of the pool; her sudden presence is like a reflection materializing: yearned-for flesh is begotten Pygmalion style.

Xyla has a pea-sized object in her hand. She is clipping the device to her hair.

“What’s that?” asks Sasha.

“A wireless computer server. Its primary function is to receive global intelligence in the form of video footage. I’m logging into a program called Nomenclature now.”

“Oh, wow.”

“I can see yum.” Says Xyla.

She is blinking twice to focus in on the real time images.

“Uh oh,” says Xyla.

“What?”

“Sash, he’s gotta gun.”

***

The Time Thief; Chapter 2, Part 1

Chapter 2: Hera and Sasha

Hera is wearing a long bear skin cloak. It has an oversized bear head (preserved via taxidermy) for a hood. The interior of the animal head is lined with red silk. The bear’s teeth are plated in gold. In the eye sockets are large amethysts. Small pearls cover the entire cloak at intervals of one inch. Large rectangular buttons of cedar wood are fastening the cloak shut; vignettes of a warrior are whittled into the wooden buttons.

Hera is adjusting her sword, which is underneath her cloak; the movement opens her cloak minimally, revealing a glimpse at her shimmering gown underneath. The back of her cloak is thick with bear fur, as are the sleeves. At the fringe of both sleeves hang emerald encrusted charms: tiny silver leopards and gold okapi are dangling there.

Hera is removing her bear head hood. Sunlight is combing her rummy hair. Hera’s mane is cognac; it’s red like an alcoholic proxy for water in a crystal vase (so soon the pie-eyed tulips will die). Her hair strands are painted in garden-radish tones. The sun is moving across the sky like the slow hands of a clock; slow light is making electric fire glint in her spider’s thread hair. Stars are sliding down her flossy locks. On her bangs, silver gloss is vanishing as the light contracts. The sunlight is growing big: all over her tresses, prismatic coals are burning.

Hera is walking under a maple tree; her hair looks brown in the midday darkness of big shadows. The wind is blowing warmly. Buxom glacial clouds, mammary shaped like scalloped lace, are singing, white! Her brown eyes are looking at The New School. An immaculate topiary maze leads to a chateau on a hill. The lux edifice houses the secret academy she’ll be jail-breaking today.

Her gaze rests on some tall shrubbery shorn to resemble elephants. Hera is calculating the quickest route through the maze. She is a trespasser. Hera wants to see The New School’s most recent inductee: Zed. If my summations are right, Zed should be sleeping in the infirmary. It’s lunchtime, so security should be low. They definitely won’t be expecting me, Hera thinks.

Hera is bending her head down; she is touching a golden time-compass at her throat. The time-compass resting near her collar bone is a gift for Zed. She will need it, Hera thinks.

Thumping hooves are crumpling grass behind her. Now, a horse is whinnying and weighty reins are dropping. Hera is turning around. Orange hair like fur and shocking blue eyes: it’s her brother Sasha.

“Quick,” he says, “they’ve seen us. We’ll have to use the Central Lab Door.”

“No. That door is shut,” says Hera.

“No time to argue. If we’re gonna get tuh Zed, we gotta go now.”

Hera is throwing her eyes towards the chateau. She knows it won’t be long before a phalanx of time-detectives are surrounding her. She is slipping her foot into the saddle’s stirrup, and hefting her body onto the saddle. Sasha turns his white steed towards the tree line.

The horse slips through the cracks in the wind deftly. The siblings are speeding on towards a log cabin in the woods. The cabin is where Dr. Yoshimoto has hidden the Inferior Labyrinth Door; this door gives a time-traveler access to the Central Labyrinth Door via a time-corridor.

“What’s the plan,” says Sasha, slowing the horse.

“Through the Inferior door, then down the corridor, then through the Central door, an’ finally up the stairs to The New School. You know, all the way ‘round the bushes—but we’ll have to find the key first. That is if the librarian isn’t carrying the key.”

“There should be another under the ‘doormat.’”

Should be are the operative words, Sash.”

“So? What then? What do we do?”

“Hack the Lab, like always.”

“But they’ve got Zed now.”

“Zed is K.O., remember. If we’re lucky she’ll be awake and intelligible when we get to her. There’s nothin’ they can do to us till she’s all rested up. And the way we’re going, she’ll be on our side before long.”

“Someone’s tailing us,” says Sasha.

“I know. Let’s lose ‘em through the falls. Hide out in the grotto.”

Sasha is making the horse ease into a gallop. The siblings are heading for a big waterfall in the deeps of the woods. Hera is feeling very warm in her cloak, but she doesn’t want to take it off. If Sasha can lose their pursuer, they’ll be heading for the colder climes of the Time Labyrinth. She’s hoping their stalker doesn’t have much stamina. If not, this game of tag won’t last long.

Thunderstorms, Tornado Watch, and Poetry! Oh My!

It’s a stormy night, and I’m in the mood for a light poem. Enjoy!

a periscope rises

from a trigonometric

matrix of cloud bluffs

a glass tunnel

looks down to see

a multiplex of stars

shining

on colorless

water / water looks

downward intro-

spectively and sees * * * *

stars swimming * * *

in an interplanetary * *

system of longing *

The Time Thief: Ch. I, pt. II

Chapter 1 Part II: The Librarian

Fluvial fly ash in the wind shimmering primeval blue. Time atoms fluxing on whetted edges of hoary cold. He is leaving the door to the Time Labyrinth ajar; crystals of glass-slipper snow are slip-coating sleeping, peaty time in booty: ice is a treasure here. Cutaneous minutes frieze voluptuously; are shivering in a silver clock; are storming thicker than magma from a death rose.

Lonesome Homo sapiens slashing snuff-like snow; his halberd dragon-slaying frozen monoliths. He is scalping ice, spraying demigod forever-twinkles of sacral winter everywhere. Spattering his snow goggles is mythic galactic hunter, Orion; hero now vanishing in smoke of snow. More snow. The lone gallant scraping frost from his goggles. Already, a new star formation of ice is streaking his just-cleaned lenses. Maybe, he will see Orion again.

The black footed wind war whooping, color yellow. The librarian pulling his gilt pocket watch out. It isn’t telling the time, it’s telling the years, the sentinel centuries softened by gloaming. He is standing (frozen) betwixt parentheses. Time and its parallel are eddying around him.

He hails from the Victorian Era. He is standing at the arctic crux of the Time Labyrinth; which he has access to via a clandestine door in his palatial library. Right now, he is trying to determine which white gust will be ferrying him to the epoch of Zed.

He knows that his destination is AD 2015, circa Zed’s latest attempt at suicide. He knows she is heading for the athletic track; if he’s late, she will have already succumbed to lethal sleep. He knows he can’t be late. However, he is still mining for the master key to the invisible, central Labyrinth Door. He is filleting ice in utter agitation.

Clink! He is using the dagger on the south-most pole of his halberd to dig up the key. Fairy dust is undulating in a translucent partition of particles. The librarian is wallowing in snow scum, finally clutching the hard, slippery high-tech key.

He is using the key as a compass. When the limpid key becomes an opaque neon pink, he will have reached the invisible portal. The librarian is trekking due east in the blizzard. The key is flushing a full-bodied flamingo pink. “The door! I’ve found the door to wonders!” he cries. A chink in the realm appears: a door from nothing, suddenly.

Science! Science! He thinks, That Dr. Yoshimoto is a brilliant man! Except for the nasty business of hiding the key in the depths of perdition. Rather disagreeable assignation, I’d say.

Hurrying, the librarian is fitting the luminous key into the Lab door’s static black keyhole. The keyhole looks like a square on a Rubik’s cube where the sticker was peeled off. The behemoth door looks like it belongs to an English castle; it’s a skeuomorphic gateway to the black river of time. On this side of the door, the snow is yelling in dark blue tones.

The librarian is pulling the yelping door open; he is feeling the carbuncles on the iron door rings; he is vanishing into the soundless vacuum that is future time.

I’m off to see the wizard, he’s thinking, the wonderful wizard named Zed.

Monday Fun Day: The Diary Files

Here is a scandalous excerpt from my personal, juicy-licious diary of 2 1/2 years:

Whitish light makes a jigsaw puzzle: a porcelain necklace of sky behind the trees. The soft, supple, bold, fresh color of plant flesh reverberates lowly. The little hands of the profoundly green trees make the sky into a gem of logic:

The sky is a thing of serial beauty: of bone tinctured leather cut outs; of fulgid negative spaces; of mien and curvature akin to the quadratic alphabet: such is the bone sky.

Picket fence white apartment balconies make tire tracks on reality. Between each blanched piano key of the balustrade is a sliver of colorless air; is a [silvered] coffee cake of metaphysical substance.

Every transparent candy-stripe of oxygen hostels sequestered chunks of life: invisible triangular lines ramify, in the lingua franca of [semantic consciousness], the anatomy of a broken house.  Life is broken into [sweetish] pieces, like peanut brittle.