It dawns on, tinged orange shaped like cranberry, to be me is to be here with you. I worry that I’ve been only fumbling. Smacking my lips together little sewn tambourine. Your skin stretched stranded, my palm upturned and tattooed. Now clenched. Breathed a swoon sigh, like a soft click, like velvet that never dies, settling downy in the blood gulch. Plunge, twist, draw, me, me, me out the body of your enemies. Pounded back in. My horse never dies. I seem to choose to forget about the cookies on the rack. I am, on surface level, unsure. Crust below. Mouthfuls of fur, you stick to my throat and my stomach grumbles. You respond in turn, something like ______. My laughter a warm applause, belly as tight as a drum. Glow on, gully, gut me like a pig

*

I should like to be bold

sopping wet

greased with blood

I slip out of my own grasp gushing forth from the dime-sized hole drilled straight through my thumb and out the nail—
a small holy spring for you, my Giant— so you may wet the very tip of your tongue,
glittering, it steams, that last breath from the first bite of a hot madeline; obsessed, I consume its last breath

*

the masculine urge is burrowed deep in the pit of my body, burred spur spun sharp and I, worm or oyster, clamped up around that spiked wheel— the relief, do you understand?,

of being seared shut— the juice brims—

*

I stare lidless

the sky blinks for me

Arcturus, he gilds my blood with metal, the same blood that pins me to the wall drunk
on fish and midnight sun

sight widening, panting I touch the thought like a—

*

the midnight sun slips open my mitochondria (body

humming underneath
body) (lust in space)

midnight sun! that bandaged wound. pulsating. deep oil immortal, seeps when pressed, rising
to wave down the fingers

and when the passion falls flat, tunneled syrup, my reluctant mouth and faltering heart; you come on, each new layer of flesh snapping open like a cut ribbon flung

you've taken my skin as its single organ (peeled up and then put down again) but it's never quite the same again, am I?

something big is gonna happen over my dead body

memory hums in the cell of the swamp, chewy, knitted, fiber formed, taste and lolled in my mouth from cheek to cheek, heartfelt when the heart is empty. The balled up root. Kissing the king’s ring, begging penance, I do it naked, penance, or praise; say what you mean, the distance is loud enough. My sweet tooth balloons, yelping slyly. Who is who and blood thirsty, a taste for

do the bad thing twice. Feel, chewy ribboned caramel turning on the wheel; my jaw unhinges, swinging, deeply deeply yearn; stuck tooth to tooth till death do us; you tell me, is this the right time? Under this full moon? Mind swings shut. Bones they stutter ruddered blind-white. Kiss me! demands the shark. And oh the tenderness in his empty-black, those welled eyes, I toss all my coins into them just to hear the clatter chitter chatter— it’s what I need to silence mind. To say hello to the Giant, golden silence glistening in the belly of gut, shark, Giant, me. The distance that is neither you nor I. The gut that cannot be contained. I kiss his ring. Kneeled before. From princess pea to beheaded queen, of praise or penance

In the center I feel the pull that Donnie always talked about. You know how I know? It’s the same thick oil pearl the Giant eats. I’ve seen his feasts. I get it, I'm transfixed. I used to mistake it for my second heartbeat, but no

it’s even better, like my body growing a second phallus, pulpy pod, body, she's free afterall

the Giant and I roll up our sleeves and set to work. a brimming banquet to prepare for the memories of all the children I have been: for all the girls I have been: for all the alien I have been: the smell of snot and tangerines on my fingertips flavoring my book citrus fleshy pollen matte

when what I thought to grow up was to continuously, eternally be filled up with desire

the Giant and I, we worship the Moon together

he has shown me how to spin hay, Rabbit; related gold matter, glistening swamp hair

in other words the thick thin wrapped spindle and its pricking point, now midway via combusta with both feet fresh in the threshold of Scorpio I: A Jawbone and my fingers stubbed crackling! the pulse of the wheel. the little jacket on garlic. we politely take the coats of our dinner guests. the table is slowly set

the plastic shells of human hands, the thick block of the financier's gold heavy with wheat and sugar, the book of a meticulously thin apple, buttery raisin custard in a dish

and there, at the dinner table, I feel my mind growing its own neck, egged on by Mars and his relentless shoves. lunging forward still, my head heavy on its throat— it sways, beast, planetary and reptilian, unblinking— that split heart transfixed who knows what’s best, yes, heed the warning and keep all traps shut. it takes some mammalian force to turn the mind back. and oh my body— scales pieces apart— moves ever so slowly

i am not light and feathered. the Giant will still have me. we eat quietly, desirously, sucking in and spitting out the blood of a wound through my teeth. in my own hubris, i refuse to believe that there are things which cannot be described

xxo,
s

It's a frost morning in Maine and the Atlantic, one big blue hound, stiffening its coat, stretching moon soaked skin taut. It's that darkening stare right before the lunge. At the cafe a man orders hot coffee with cream. The river that divides my town from his is devoid of seals today. We all prepare for the eclipse carnival in our own ways. My house emptied out of lover and dog for the next few days like lost marbles on wood, I wonder, did we ever belong here on earth at all... i feel it, those all engorging deep sea flesh, suspended, unblinking, enough to crumple the world's tallest disaster, it feels too much to say yes when what i mean is yes, of course, take me into yours

me, little beast and you, alien, breathtaking, a chamber tunneled into my own heart, in the shape of you, in eternity, here we are back at the square, blinded, eyes turned inward, depthless beyond measure looking up up up

Breakfast
by Jacques Prévert

He poured the coffee
Into the cup
He put the milk
Into the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
Into the coffee with milk
With a small spoon
He churned
He drank the coffee
And he put down the cup
Without any word to me
He emptied the coffee with milk
And he put down the cup
Without any word to me
He lighted
One cigarette
He made circles
With the smoke
He shook off the ash
Into the ashtray
Without any word to me
Without any look at me
He got up
He put on
A hat on his head
He put on
A raincoat
Because it was raining
And he left
Into the rain
Without any word to me
Without any look at me
And I buried
My face in my hands
And I cried

next week, in fact, will not look like the last

xxo,
s

do i need to do it? is it required of me? if so, why is it required? is it justified? does it make sense? what happens if i don't do it? how would i benefit, either way? why do it?

a chemtrail of questions follows me around like a child.

would you eat me? would you really take me into me? into you? the table standing straight, fruiting. take me there. our mellified body ripe, as undefined as my open centers and, based on my taste cognition i've come to this conclusion;

i've fought with bitterness all my life, that worthy foe dementing the metal cage, convinced i belong nowhere, the empty chair holding a drink, unnoticed

and yet i've come to know; you don’t know. you know. i know. i don't know. i press into you like a drawer sliding shut. my thud. your full space. not/ unlike being filled by you. i am there even if the wave goes decimated against the swollen rocks

"I have some business out at the edge of town; candy weighing both of my pockets down” —Joanna Newsom

my pockets full of glittering sensuous flesh. that cadent slant of H3, H9, H12. . . me, clumsy spinster in the void, the moon putrefied full in my 12th house— i considered asking you, if there's anything you'd like me to see or taste while i'm out?— i am no mule and the candy will be gone by then, but— i came to feel my own question pointlessly. yet, the offer still stands in retrospect and for you, i will time travel; my throat can carry multiple eyes, knocking marbles clunking plastic chips, babbles of books, dice made from a fingerbone pointing the way amidst bramble and berry.

I've begun to put more of my weight into post-posts; the aftermath of chitter chatter and tearing away and loving toward. I don't find it particularly alluring to write prediction, to claim what you will experience. i don't know what that will be, only you. so, i think, i'd rather share in the aftermath of spoilt and blind moons. this particular past Aries full moon lighting up those murderous children, the mean pixies drunk on milk running electronic, runny. my body pumping blood, electric, my dog remote viewing with each inhale. Libra season summoned donnie darko and, in the fall of the Sun, Frank emerges plasticine and putrid. drenched in fur.

Puer, I'm still caught up thinking about you. wounded and howling, spurting oil in Gemini, both your own keeper and kept; making eyes at Puella from across the way in Libra she licks the Sun's neck her tongue combust, no

the moon is her own dimension

Saturn watches in the distance as Sun and Venus approach his trine, singing, and though our bones may break and souls separate, why the long face? although our bodies recoil from the grip of the soil, why the long face?

the moon in chorus, sextile or cosmic chainmail, sings sweetly back; from the top of the flight, of the white white stairs, through the rest of my life, do you wait for me there

xxo,
s

*all italicized portions by Joanna Newsom*

May speeds us all up, both in sugar and salt. But it doesn’t necessarily mean that we won’t sprint in circles. After a month or two of my silence, I realized that it doesn't matter if I found that silence satisfactory. Venus knows. My body knows. We have both given up multiple ghosts.

The stickiness, though, peels hardly off, and the ones glued to the metaverse, even worse. Some holographic, neo feudal market basket apple with the sale sticker drilling a webbed hole into its flesh; I eat it five times to absorb the same amount of nutrients it could've given me in 1950 AD. I wonder of all the future children as spirits, then, at this moment, eating their fill of modified fruit just in case the future only holds the fruit of bugs...

hollowed juice of the loom ! my back muscles, apparently, tend to cling to my spine; sticky muscles, they call it. sticky bone broth gravy that shortens the tongue's reach. The first official day of eclipse season I awoke from a dream of a crocodile tunnel to our Other species. I requested their love and sexual attention, but woke up before our first kiss. Have I been initiated? A crocodile pretending to be human?

Kero Kero Bonito makes me think of weathering the eclipse. I recommend the PARK SONG for after dark thoughts. Skinny Puppy TOO DARK PARK, too.

Happy eclipse season, dear readers. I love you. Thank you for your time, for the eye strain, pretend that I mailed this on paper. I suspect I'll be around a bit more again. Some thoughts are for me, some thoughts are for you, and some are just for the birds. And if you'd like to schedule a reading of your horoscope, let me know. xoxo

-the smell of milk bread heating,
-the sugars slow burnish in the toaster
a romantic moment until it pops up before I can expect it
and my broken window of tolerance, startled, shoots me sky high, a chafe of mind...

all day I smell a smell that is neither detergent nor powdery perfume, but close enough... I consider, after having just watched Nekromantik for the first time, that there could be a corpse doused in scents underneath the couch, or crouching in the oven; the end is (could be) near! in stillness is darkness and in darkness the void—

isn't that the corner of fear we have all been backed into? fear of contagion while eagerly accepting the shrouded consequence of Safety, or our parasitic online communications, watching from the bottom left, haunting stories in the one-way viewing stream (you follow them but they don't follow you) mutual combat ("obligatory" follows) and mutual reception (the charmingly parasitic intimacy of mutuals).

if we were never meant to know what was happening globally, in far corners of the world (where two walls meet? is it dark there?)— with the onset of the internet, of immediate message and translation (or, unobstructed delay) then what does it mean to be creatures with habits and actions that were "meant to be"?

continuity of both image and information is both easy and difficult to discover, uncover. we follow the golden thread and are led to numeric heaven (hell) on earth. I consider and turn over in my hands the gap between the logical continuity of data vs the visual continuity of my selfies. how do I really look when you look at me? Marguerite Porete’s The Mirror of Simple Souls— the title alone elongating in refusal beyond any folder I've created in my mind...

me, I'm somewhat of a parasite myself— couched in a dark corner, my love’s brass work lamp a spotlight in the theater of my bedroom— in a freeze as I scroll the roll of endless advice on this new moon. I must say, I have no advice for you. only these questions, and clouded thoughts. as I live a life in continuity with the non-human cells of my being, regretting the introduction of new ones, and yet attempting to remain solar in the hope of the regenerative properties of that very flesh, I think of the Brand of Life, the Flavor of incarnation I am trying to convey to you, reader. I think the closest I've come so far is: bimbos 4 intellectual honesty via the muscularity necessary to be open to divinity. (thank you, Emmalea, for your specific use of muscularity in this context). if you're still here, if that sounds like something you'd like to read/hear/chew more about, let me know; what does divinity mean to you? what about intellectual honesty? what do you do in the darkshade of your jupiter ruled houses that force you to mediate the relationship between self and parasitic self?

this pisces new moon stands proud opposite both my natal venus and jupiter, and I am over being startled. that poetic, innocent moment of startlement; starstruck; starlit; maybe I'm not so over it;

yes, it's me, it could be us, peeling apart in the plume of a roll. what does it mean to be truly open? open with control? open with muscularity, intimacy, sexuality without debt?

she lives in my lap

hit reply with thoughts and non-thoughts, xo always,
sarah

it's tiresome to keep up with all the needs of the body. i drink my cup full of water and need to go to the bathroom. i eat, pause, see if i need to eat some more; if i don't, i resist the temptation to continue on regardless, since eating is such a deep pleasure. i must decide to wait until my body needs more, lest i overindulge. always needing to understand tonight's dinner before the sunset hour, when it becomes too late and i enter the lethargic dark with irritated hunger for the future. no patience. it's tiring. i want to nap but resist rest, for new and old reasons every day. this also angers me. the continual cycle of maintenance is exhausting but more so because of the wellness ethos attached to it; as simon critchley says, the gospel of me. my highest potential. i often think of kirsten dunst from season 2 of fargo insisting, "i need this workshop to realize my true potential!"

what is with our obsession with utter and complete fulfillment? to both abandon our body in the hell of meats and, at the same time, to elevate it to the role of score keeper? well, which is it? we pump up our soul like a mamachari tire, at once deflated, worn, at the bursting edge; "authenticity, needing no reference to anything outside itself, is an evacuation of history. the power of now."

i have been pursuing my desire for presence lately, somewhat relentlessly. but what would true openness look like now? how could i ever receive with true acceptance the millions of "downloads"— from workshops to unsolicited advice to pop up spam games— without losing my mind along the way, like something that has absentmindedly drooped out of my pocket? maybe this is our modern path to marguerite porete’s total annihilation of the soul, to create a space for god's own self reflection. our own soul as god, self authorizing, but with the approval of tents and circuses full of that visible authority, visible approval.

may i insist, to myself, to not expose or lose the self "in the order of visibility?", to not always be demanding transparency. there is a brittle horror at the center of visibility, but i sweat truly in the dark invisible. make me opaque. i am not yours to decreate in a frame of carceral logic, rightness, gospel. but i am not mine, either. i insist, my desire, to only be governable by the edge of experience. . .

like i've stated with some cleanliness in the title (which does not match the messiness of the text body) breaking the line (poetry) is what breaks the bread (body) in my mind. clarity, too, can be breakage, that sudden pop that makes you look up. i don't want to waste your time with explanations and apologies for my absence, because i already, personally, see too much of that online. it's not that i don't owe you anything, it's that i am becoming more and more unsure of performance and how to navigate it. i think, if anything, that is the main reason for my disappearance into the glittering void. conceptual cleanliness in a title helps to clear a bit of that cerebral congestion. there's something there, too, about the nature of light and how it weakens the more it is bent, that main tool of derived houses, and the opacity of the those in our lives as stories of ourselves.. .

more to come, and for now, no questions, but plenty of hesitations, infinitely open to any thoughts you may have,

xo sarah

the warning from space is; you were born in heaven

even with Saturn's dross, that fruitful lead in sponsorship of our dark wet moon made dry and crisp as the goat's heart in capricorn on this lonely day number two, no longer in celebration, down to the business of losses and crosses right in that damp lamp we worship. . . oh right, Sun. . .

Saturn, lord of the unfortunate, lord of clowns. Severe in action yet unwilling to haste, the moon over there, well, she stands rigid and vegetative. Deep dwelling internal bondage of the cardinal effacement. The cervix thins to allow for passage. Wet moon even wetter after that, I'd bet. Is she as soft as your bottom lip? Or firm like the tip of your nose?

I know, I know. Earth is ordinary. Elemental. Insipid, long suffering, mortal— oh. Essential. What are you made of?

to give from one self to another. to animate. I woke up just a few days ago. Seemingly alone, I startled. I took my temperature (that forever blood predictor), and my tongue a thick slab was running hotter than usual. Next time I won't go to sleep in fleece. I wake up rushing to write, something. I dream awake of Wayne Thiebaud painting cakes and olives in heaven. How they must smell different, does the bread burn with stars. . .

New year, new vitamin. Not so simple, but essential. My last meal of the year somehow was also the first meal of a new(er) year. Sashimi. Rice. Milk. Egg. Sugar. Salt. Water. Purin broken down to its primal parts. I feed my plants watered down blood from my uterus. The red is both brighter and softer than I imagined in water. They murmur back sweetly with new furled tips and glossy face.

Here's to evaluating someone to value their loss (take that with salt or sugar, your choice). To poached chicken salad on black bread, palmiers, tea cups with running colors, vitamin, paintings of effervescent cakes, to clowns, to the overtaxed heart of the capricorn moon. i love you, i love you. beware of those that want to explain your pain to you.

write me and tell me this; what is your new year vitamin? that parsed down essential bit. that tooth that shines blind. what can you not do without, even if it's new? is it new? or is it just primordial? base? tell me, tell me. here's a fur lined box for that bejeweled thought of yours. here's to keeping it warm and murderess, practical, and free of judgement. . .

to the new year & the new moon xoxo,
sarah

p.s. did you notice the new banner, our new gremlin friends, the cottage with the smokestack all just for housing these dream erratas? I am so excited and delighted by this beautiful work done by the amazing CJ. Find him on IG @joedyfoster, I promise you won’t be disappointed. <3

while I wanted to introduce the new new with some additional plump ups on a free offering I’ve had brewing for a while, the gremlins were asking to be introduced on this dark moon, what with both mine and CJ’s being in capricorn. (happy lunar return, CJ!) all that to say, my Saturnian moon is slowly undoing, making, reknitting; more is coming and as always, you will be the first to hear. thank you for opening these silly errata letters. thank you for you. xo.

I'd like to think that my stollen resting, rising in the oven with it's single light, brought about this snow storm in Maine. I swear on time and truth.. that could not be the case. But time keeps pace, and being in/on time is different from being on top of time. Imagine thinking you could be on top of Saturn.

I am often a punctual person. I prefer to be prepared, to show up early, to settle in. Of course, there are many instances where I am not as on time as I'd like to be. But I do follow a guideline of 5-10 minutes of leeway at the maximum. Astrological time is something wholly different. In some ways, it's not even about time; it becomes a map for keeping your word. When language and time intersect— will you do the things you say you will?

What happens when ones actions inhibit another from acting forward, toward? Toward acting in and on time? What does it mean, then, to be the one who creates a tax on time by their absence? It begins to stink of forcing the burden of time and task unto others, rather than some conceptual bending of time and culture.

Keep your word on a repetitive (time) basis, and trust slowly materializes. The feeling (moon) is given form (Saturn). What does it mean to live in time-based reality (no matter how wretched) as a method of living in agreement with others? Who in your life is worthy of time-operated commitment?

So who is the late comer to time? In a harsh light, untrustworthy. At best, a body of refusal to the general consensus of material operation. And if the latter is any bit true, what happens to their relationship to power? See, in this instance I hear power look away. And yet the burden of time and task remain the same. Stay t u n e d, dear readers. Saturn is our bridge to heaven.

xoxo,
sarah

with that ubiquitous gaze
my mother-given set of pursuant eyes

and still yet, venus and pluto warming up a room enough to blossom the tight bud tighter

i know it's been a while, and for that i am tempted to apologize and harry my hair and hands in worry but
we both know that TIME is true, with real consequences
our lord and sav(i)or Saturn, our bridge between heaven and earth, and/but VOID
and vitamin
you understand
i refuse to overexplain each other

instead i'll tell you about some hiccups from my dreams, erratas if you will—

november 23, 2021 : with the moon in cancer in an exact trine to mars in scorpio,
i realize that it will not be so easy to escape my captors. the only way out is to earn a dish of sugar water.

december 4, 2021: moon and mercury conjunct and struggling in sagittarius,
a plate of food at the end of an onsen— one giant slice of cantaloupe, a tiny square of salmon cooked, diced pineapple in tasteless water...

when pain interrupts sleep? what then? dogged, it won't let go of the base of my spine, worried bone and
and and and
to see you on the same side. what if we've been taken for a ride?

xo,
sarah

you were never here

yes, I have one experience and line it up with the one just past; yes, I even pin it to the wall, watch it hold up or not to the event to follow; yes, yes I do this all and hope that my Giant's gaze holds me still; I imagine looking up into his eyes would set me straight but dead, son of suns, she said

the pungent heart

The scorpio new moon today is all the rage. We throw our heads down down the well and into the depths of animalic musk. Like slabs of flesh stacked to life; there's nothing more precious dressed in tiny socks.

I cannot see the ways in which you understand me; I reach for an apparatus of mutual distillation (Coppock) in the 2nd decan of scorpio where this new moon resides and find my hand around the neck of a goose. All sexual organ and haunt. Does it burn through saturn's spirals of skin? Does mars at last, in his superior square, win out over saturn? Plump with death skin unmakes itself. And yet mars holds rhythm— pain makes the rhythm, makes the rhythm, makes the rhythm—

There are nine diamonds in the rough; 8 spades to dig them up. In consequence, a single diamond to accompany us at the end of pleasure. Imbed the jewel, swap an eye for diamond, say it was a mining accident; it need not matter. Uranus crushes the jaw bone to sing and to think… I hesitated

xoxo,
sarah

As of this moment, November 27, 2021 at 1:24 PM EST, the moon in cancer finds herself out of bounds. Foundationally strong and noble within herself, the wild wet of cancer protects the center with a high pitch that penetrates even her own sticky flux. Similarly, venus in sagittarius finds herself out of bounds and in the face of the moon. Together their relationship seems thrown on the rocks, this quincunx; they look away from each other, and declare that there is no relationship there at all. How to describe this? The best I can do for you is to revisit a beautiful pastry I have never seen in person, but it took my breath away nevertheless; a cardamom bun made of croissant dough, with satsuma glaze draped over a pool of frangipane. Now picture this beauty as the one that gets accidentally tossed to the floor by an errant sheet tray, and, too busy to make the move the baker shoves it under the floor for later. Tell-tale bun, you’re irrevocably wasted now, anyway.

The celestial chatter for November centers largely around mars; he will entrench himself in two lunations, square saturn and oppose uranus, and finally emerge from under the beams of the sun. Mars will enter the 29th degree of libra on October 28th; lest we forget that libra is one of two kingdoms of his detriment, it would be wise to exercise patience and slowness around the animal of the soul during this last stretch. As he prepares to enter his domicile his limbs are covered in a grain of skin, budding appendage, desperate for the deep cauldron of scorpio to boil off the airy film.

With the sun in the house of mars, I chide myself to not get too attached to fixed realities or securities. The fixed continually erodes under the anchor of scorpio, and I suffer greatly for my attachments to them. So I think;

seeing the word COVID and hearing OVID in it's bio

a certain hilarity to surety— in a few hours I'll be somewhere else, and thus, certainty as time travel with no guarantee

and finally, do I desire to function without seam because I desire to be closer to the machine? if so, is it in romance or jest?

xo,
sarah

Today is the new moon at 13 degrees Libra (I'm getting a little tired of hearing about Libra, are you?) with Mars squished to the Sun and moon like a half melted milkcrate stuck to the flame. In the clutches of Venus in Scorpio, this new moon is square my 13 degree Capricorn moon and with little thought I ordered 13 ink refills in size 0.38 mm for my favorite pen this morning.

It's the third day of trying to deep clean my apartment as one thing or another gets hung up— running out of paper towels, wondering if I'm pregnant, considering the route I'd take to the pharmacy to buy a test, finding blood on my robe, buying my third latte of the week. There's the celestial drop cloth hanging low and heavy like worn milk. Cloudy thoughts with too much steam to understand if the pot is empty or not.

The new moon is the dark moon and the dark moon is infinity. The eel is, also, infinity but in the way that the void has it's own sharp beak. I think of the dark moon and I think about how my body already teems with burial. Yes, we are dark in the Libra moon and sure, we think of Venus and see love/harmony/light; but Venus is in part beauty and beauty is often more empyrean delight/humanly terrible than we would like to have it. A gemmy berry with spears for hairs asking you at the crossroads— who gave you eyes like that? said you could keep them?

My moon, that crescent slice of lemon/ I consider buying a small just for lemon pitcher pickled heart/ rippled lump of shot from the thief and I think

I could be a paper figure screwed together with gold bolts, moving shakily due to all that I host—
mitochondria, dumb bambi, blood cell, bone, bacteria—
together we are the house of us, full of citation, and our activity animates my body above and beyond as was, as is, as will be

xo,

sarah