down to the brass tacks of bloggery

time to get thinking in elusive 
 cyber-print again
I’ve been away  way beyond 
  long enough

my renaissance stirred
by some thoughts on Story Tellin’
by a well loved near son
and the stat sighting of . . .

well you know who you are
(a lover of story tellin’ in all its womanifestations:
  alas I miss your particular brand of different same. . .)

Now is the stage upon which are played
 then   and when

as you can well imagine   I do  have stories  
 happenings from the interval between the blogdeath 
 at journalspace and herenow

I have tended to my story tellin’ 
almost as well as I have been tending my knitting
tended   in the sense that I have 
accrued stories  in this silent time
and I will  dole them out
here in my theatre of memory
each of the numberless rooms  rich in objects
 each numberless object  gilded with numberless memories
and beneath the theatre 
 the subterraneous Underworld where all the memories
   to be forgotten   are kept
for having an impeccable memory
  depends upon knowing   what to forget
  and forgetting it
and as  even the forgotten need to be stored
there is always an Underworld of the Theatre 

without  candle or lamp  the way one sees the objects here
 is with the hands  though I prefer to come
with some small light as well - a djinna inhabited lamp -
 because it wouldn’t do to tear the tapestries spun  
strung   woven  and hung
by the cosmic spinners    of fate
through  the efforts of their spider kin
 lots of forgottens cached in those webs

so find a wild space  to sit
  or recline  your precious self
and soon as you’re cozy
   
I’ll begin_________ 

mending glass

how then to meditate upon the
 shattered figments
how too   to mediate between 
 each shard   picking and plucking
 from the broken  selecting and 
   making our way back to the whole
for it’s through the looking glass
 and down the rabbit hole
and nowhere else   that certain
 magicks can be found

 time now  to shatter the glass 
  veiling the clock face
in one instant freeing the seconds
 just as  from the hourglass
 we freed imprisoned sand
 to create  desert
 dunes   the beach
the airborne gritsmother of reefs

time now to shatter the mercurial glass
 home of the double who knows true
   left from right
in her fall she multiplies into  
 a thousand and onefold   smaller selves
 grinning at my one-of-a-piece
 
before the fire
 smoke etched in parables
the hazy pretext of reality clouds
 the world within  without
  the plume  of flame becoming smoke
  writes the text of night

the beginning of lace linen curtains