Deborah and Manjag the Metamystic Metaphysician

Deborah wasn’t looking
when the tear in time/space first appeared
But it got her attention before too long
It sounded like the surf at Manitoba
And Smelled like . . . that old hippie smell
Faint . . . not too strong

Manjag the Metamystic Metaphysician
Stepped into the middle of the room
But from her point of view
He looked like he was sliding in sideways
And there he was

Not a terribly remarkable man
Except for the eyes
He had Pablo Neruda’s eyes
Eye the color of an azure sea

And he looked confozeled
Pulled a small black
pocket sized journal
From his rear pocket
and thumbed through the pages . . .

He seemed to find something
“You are Deborah?”
‘Well . . . Yes . . .’
“Oh good
So this is what the 21st century will look like . . .”
‘Well, not all of it
We’re just getting started’

He laughs and it is the laugh
Of an uncle that she hasn’t seen in years
And its good
It’s just a good laugh

He pulls a small rubber ball out of his front pocket
And sets it to bouncing on the floor
Which is no small trick on the thick carpet
“I am Manjag the Metamystic Metaphysician
At your service . . .” complete with exaggerated bow
The ball is orbiting them both
She wonders what would happen
if she tried to step through
“I have come as a favor
To a very old and dear friend”

Deborah notices that the room is now silent
‘How does this work?’
“You know those noise cancellation headphones
Same thing
Except it works on the tidal principle
Of Cyto Chaotics
I can remove it if you like . . .”
Its fine . . .’

And it was
It was a good feeling
Like the noise of the whole world
Had somehow been pushed to a place
outside the tiny sphere
“If I may come to the point
My Lady has requested that I give you a break
Though I am not certain I fully appreciate
Why she’d want you broken . . .”
And Deborah laughed . . .
It got just a bit hysterical toward the end

He reached to some other place
And brought forth the most perfect Pina Colada
She ever seen
And while it was the middle of the day . . .
It tasted like that first vacation
To the Bahamas . . .

Manjag pulled a small ukulele and a straw hat
Out of the air and proceeded to yodel
the worst rendition of Margaretville
And Deborah laughed . . .
‘Mister . . . ?’
“Yes dear?”
‘Why are you here?’
“A dear kind Lady
In whose service I am proud
Has asked that I come to this place . . .”
‘But excuse me . . . Mister Mandrake . . .’
“Manjag . . .”
‘Manjag . . . who is this Lady?’
Manjag Laughed

“She is the Lady
The Mother of all mothers
and you stand in her favor . . .
I see you are confused . . .”
And then he began to read from his little book
She soon understood that it was a list of activities
Her activities . . .
How did he know?
“ . . . And today you made pancakes”
So what?’
“Dear mother of this family
This shining example of a family
Complete with toil and trouble and strife
Complete with challenges and debts
Dear mother of this family
You have sacrificed yourself . . .”
Deborah looks down
‘But I don’t deserve the credit . . .’
“Dear mother
I will not bore you with visions
Of what this family would be without you
But I can tell you
You are the backbone of this family . . .
This has not gone without notice . . .”

He looks at his wrist
But there I no watch
“Time’s about up . . .
Although technically time has slowed outside
Feeling rested?”
Why yes
Yes she was
‘Manjag . . . what’s this all about?’
“It’s about you for a change Mam”
And his hand caught the ball . . .

The whole world rushed back in on her
But didn’t feel quite so heavy as before . . .
He bowed like he had done a magic trick
He handed her the ball
“When you need a break
bounce the ball . . .”

And poof
He was gone

Wild brambles in the foggy stillness

Today i walk with my stick
Pausing often
Lingering by this stream
Strangely ferrel in this dream of steel and glass

I listen to the wind without knowing the sound
No longer demanding to know a name for everything
Grasping with an open hand

Wild brambles in the foggy stillness
Bird-cries in a small wind

One moment more
And then lunch

fog, mist, stillness

winter does not come
my breath billows in the night fog

mist congeals
cloud dragons coiling and roiling on their way
sliding silently to a place
in the distant darkness

under the street light
i look down at the dew covered ground
and find that i have a halo

i’m thinking
‘anyone could do this
could make this halo. . .’

but no one is here but me
a man alone
in an unfathomable stillness

i extend my hand into a passing dragon
it curls as though i’m scratching its belly




The Dark Knight of a Distant Place

I was conceived where the Heavens and Earth touch
It was long ago
but I remember awareness dawning
The quickening tides of breathing
Taking on of the feathers of Sunlight and Shadow

I have walked the nether realms
behind all seven doors
I have danced Suns into existence
And twisted Suns into Silence
I am the Life-Force Dragon
The Dark-Force Warrior
And I bring you these things

An obsidian knife from beyond the Ebon Door
A hibiscus burgeon from beyond the Green Door
A still beating Heart from beyond the Ivory Door
A wooden stake from beyond the Crimson Door
A ghost-angel from beyond the Azure Door
A drum from beyond the Bronze Door
A silver rose from beyond the Silver & Black Door

The heart strives by strain

She takes my hand
and places it on her heart
“Gravity pulls at the grass
yet it flourishes
The heart is but a muscle
and like the Taoist cup
it must be hollow to work
Desire is born of absence
and empathy
The heart strives by strain
and absence is born of desire
how could it ever be otherwise”
She moves fluidic in the night

The grasses die in winter

She moves so close to my face
the moon’s reflection is visible in her eyes
Her breath
somewhere between vanilla and persimmon
“I’ll grant you the stems and blades wither
the birds leave the skies
and the night comes
But the roots do not die
the birds will return
and few are the things more subtle
and more inexorable than the Dawn
Life is as relentless as Death
In fact they are Lovers”

And what are we?

“We’re players
in a game ages old
You . . . you know the New ways
and I am the Old
both as one and yet separate
Anyone can dance by themselves
but boredom must surely ensue”

Seems like a lot of trouble to me

She laughs out loud
under a sky dripping stars
“The best stories always are . . . “

The Sage and the Minx

The Sage is working at his desk
(it might have been a desk once
for the moment it’s an avalanche in slow motion
a testament to the angle of repose)

A five dimensional tesseract flickers into and out of existence
a hand’s breadth above the four dimensional tesseract he build back on ’07
Tiny sparkle diamond angels and ox-blood demons buzz around the Ergon Lagrangian points

His Mechanamuse props a lovely arm on one of the less precarious stacks
Heavy is her sigh

The old man is totally distracted by his newly conjured toy
and so he misses her plaintive eye-roll

She sighs again
a tsunami scented of autumn and dried leaves
strikes the 5 dimensional object making it shimmer in the flickering candle light

“Yes Dear one
I know you are here. . .”

“Oh Grey
I am so bored. . .”

“So tonight I am to be the entertainment?”

“Silly wizard
I am the entertainment
You’re the appreciative audience.”

Light is rekindled in his grey slade eyes
With the slightest flick of his wrist the construct flickers once
and then it’s gone

“Let’s go outside
Perhaps a walk before evenmeal.”

Good call
I’ll get my bow.”