Maid Wymysi is dancing across the lake
Leaves fall in her wake
“Look . . .
I know the sky is dark and the winds walk the woods
but ignore all that and listen to me”
Her dark-dark eyes seeping into my soul
The Maid Wymysi says
“I will speak comfort to you
that you might fly in a cyan sky
untroubled by clouds”
Her breath warm and complex
The Maid pirouettes and suddenly the wind is her orchestra
Her voice comes as if from a distance
“In the caves beneath the earth
and in the chambers of the hearts of men
I can dance where you would stumble”
Her face fills my eyes, I can see nothing else
“I can protect you from all things wanting your blood
but you must spare me a drop every now and then . . .
After all, a girl’s got to make a living”
You flew East
and I went West
Reality is such a subjective place
sometimes Fantasy is Best
Fire and Rain
Fear and Pain
Fall from the Northern Skies
Past is all pretense
of lost goodbyes
I fly East
and You wonder West
Reality is such a speculative place
ofttimes Fantasy is Best
Tears and Pain
Lights across the Southern Skies
Lost is all pretense
of fond goodbyes
None know East
None went West
Reality is such a subjective place
sometimes Fantasy is Rest
Lost beneath the Southern Skies
And you are gone
for love is the shiniest demon
cavorting in the temple
love has the tiny teeth of time
the tsunami that takes your breath
the perfume that would be illegal
in 37 states
the subtle poise and grace
of a water dragon
and she makes the most wondrous sound
as she tells you the tales
that will steal the precious moments
from your pocket
Ten thousand things
Left done and undone
The tea steams
The Lady writer is watching one of those hideous
Where the tail is the pendulum
And the eyes shift back
It seemed like such a good idea at the time
The wane light of a coming day
barely wins a fight with the sheer curtains
Over the breakfast nook
She lift her instrument of self torture
She lifts the pen
Touches it to the journal . . .
The nib skips a bit
Then bites the page
Jenelle is sleeping on the couch. I sit in the chair, right beside her head.
Her demon is running back and forth across the back of the couch. It does that a lot when it’s bored.
It is a slither of smoke with oversized paws that conceal nasty little claws. I have seen it for as long as I have known her. It is my small talent/curse.
It’s time I spoke to it directly. The myst that makes me demon-proof is kinda thick and it take a bit of concentration to thin it enough to speak Hesirith. That, and it makes the shielding kinda itchy and cantankerous.
“You. . . on the couch.” It ignores me.
“Shac-akawak-naw wa-tokata. . .” That gets its attention.
My hand is on her arm before it can get back into her. “Sorry, old sport, but no.”
If it dissipates, then problem solved, one less of its kind.
It decides to try attacking me. Bad choice. The shielding holds. They hate it when I laugh at them.
By its actions it has created a relationship with me. I reach through the connection and grab it by the underside. They really hate that.
An hour of really pointless struggle ensues and the dark-spawn starts to run down. It can’t feed on either of us and I’m not letting it out, so its starving.
It whines for a while; threatens for a while more and at length goes silent.
“Now, little pup, I am sure you have heard of Binders. Yeah, it’s like that. I am gonna make a deal. Either you dissipate and leave this plane for all eternity or I bind you to something inanimate and throw it into the ocean.”
It tries to bite my face. I sigh.
“Son this is pointless,” and I find the part of me that does the binding.
The creatures speaks, “Hold thy hand. Lest you in haste bring a misfortune to all concerned.”
“You mean Jenelle?”
“She summoned me and in exchange for the gifts she gives me I provide her with. . . entertainments.”
“About that, I don’t care, leave now or be bound and learn to entertain fish.”
“You insolent human, if you knew of my master. . .”
“I am the Keewah of Sultac, Binder of Nethers and Dark-spawn. I am the Fear-god of your fathers and your master fears me. Stop the rhetoric and decide your fate.”
“She needs me. . .”
“No, she doesn’t.”
And it is gone, choosing dissipation above binding. Eh’.
Jenelle awakes and is dulled by the experience.
Within an hour she has thrown me out of the apartment. The last thing she said to me before throwing her cell phone out the window was, “How can I write now! I needed that inspiration if I’m ever do anything worth a crap. You did this to me, and I hate you! Never come back!”
So, I guess its true, you must be careful when you throw out a demon, that you don’t throw away the best part. . .
The Art Museum is open every day but Thursdays
So I was there on Tuesday
And the curator was
pointing to some kind of artistic weapon of mass construction
This piece is titled
“The Object of Every Woman’s Desire”
Circa the early twenty-first century
The ‘poet’ of our little exhibit
Please note the complete lack
of upper body strength
The scruffy beard and the fashionably
unfashionable eye wear
The complete disregard for personal hygiene
Definitely early 21st
See how he extracts hardcopy poetry
from his orifice . . .
Now here’s my personal favorite . . .
The instruction manual:
and move in much higher social circles.”
Here it tells you how to eat
Properly use the bathroom
Here it reveals the ultimate
“What is going on inside her mind?!”
“Why does it seem men and women are speaking two different languages?”
“How can you become more attractive to women?”
“With this simple custom designed poetry mouth
You can expel the poetry
That will win you the love of a good woman
And the respect of your fellow men.”
“Not a book
Not a DVD
This is an actual biomedical implant
that requires no batteries.”
(A Steal at $69)
Just $21 ~ but you must order now
In addition you can also receive the amazing new book
“1001 Ways To Get Poetry to Come Out of Your Mouth”
(A value of $74 if you sign up immediately)
“You too can be ~ The Object of Every Woman’s Desire”
(Operators are on duty)
Its so hard
To get snails drunk
They drink so slow
Friendly fritzed snails
And once they start to sway
How can you know
they’re good to go
And the little crazies
Get on the keyboard
(getting it all slimy)
Sending the strangest messages
Technically the first known instance
of electronic snail mail