Tag: Phil

Fervent Ye Faithful

~ johnbrandall

by Phil Williams

 whither you come from
  -or-
the magic eight-ball

i venture into something, it's a mind-blower, but i gotta keep it under wraps for j-rand. 
see: i had envisioned a wry conversation/transcription that was intertwined. red-vines 
and mr. pibb; chronicles.

adjacent antecedent (i.e. addendum): the spatial discrepencies had been a problem, but 
the chronological shifting was downright vexing. first it was 2004, then 2007, then 2003, 
the years and specific dream ramblings resemble a rorschach test; it's another brick in 
the wall.

the wood desired chasing, and the family desired spaghetti. sorry, but my thoughts get 
confused, like waves in the midnight surf. german balloon aka led zeppelin: it parks its 
dreams @ ground zer0. eros may have called, but failed to identify himself, leading me 
to this shell of thoughts. it could be an atkins of fiction.
 
outra-verted, a word i wordlessly think when i encounter 'yar.' i consider the rivulet to 
my s(l)ide, but conclude she's w/ the tall man. i'm obviously hallucinating. the police 
have arrived and i've simply said the word 'plant.'

realizing i had entered a house of mirrors and drugs, i texted j. still and nick s. they 
were part of my cleaning crew in the mid 90's. i suddenly understand that i'm alone and sweating, 
in a basement, no shaman. the disorientation slowly dissipates and my carb-stricken mind intuits 
the next phase may require an umbrella, inverted.

Goes Away

~ johnbrandall

Where one leak seemed fixed, another springs up.  Well, isn’t that the way it goes?  Stained wood, stained mattress.  Damp kitchen, scary room.

Stove going.  I was in the dirty attic.  Three-legged chairs, canceled checks, dauber nests by the hundred.  I go up there because the attic is my place to intercept the rain that finds its way through the farmhouse’s old, fallible roof.  Like me, the rain keeps returning, keeps coming back to this remote piece of cattle country in the middle of the state.  

A mist rises from the pasture, hangs there like a cloud.  Above, the sky is clear.  There is, thank God, no wind.  It is still.  I can hear nothing but the nothing that is, the nothing that once will be everything.  If you would be so kind as to scatter my ashes here.  If you would allow me to play the part of the sandstone, to let the water through.

The mice are back.  Two traps, old cheese, picked clean.  Leave the droppings where they lay.  Wise rodents.  Re-bait, try again...


A short missive from Farm, from late last year...

"Yeah, you’ve got an egg in there for protein, that’s good. But… ."

~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

Big thread I recall was me (and perhaps Brook and Ray but maybe just me) surrounded by a setting of war.  Either civil war or invasion of the homeland.  I/we went on something of a recon mission but maybe we were just trying to get away from where we were.  Anyhow, we got caught. They … Continue reading "Yeah, you’ve got an egg in there for protein, that’s good. But… ."