Sandy Rankin

Letter-Magic, La Bona-Dea, I-Susurrus


Darling, a dash, 

—such a marvelous only, such marvelous ink-on-paper but only? Lianna, I said, and red blossoms. What did you say? A toast to work, you said. Such a marvelous toaster, you be. No ink-strings of light, silly me, no such thing as letter-magic, no such thing, alchemy. Methinks you blaspheme, always-already with me, however you dash it or em-dash it. Interrobang, me?!

Say beastly. Say princely. Say same as any angel: absent, nowhere, no-how, nada, zip? Hell, 10,000 babies died today. I know the facts. I weep for the facts, Mr. Hermetic Man-of-Letters. I am the monster that cries.  

One of those babies, Lianna, ink-on-paper—only alpha/omega alchemy. A toast to work. She lived, she died, in a non-existent kingdom by a non-existent sea. Her lark-leap died too. Her prance-dance, you zapped with that flourish of ink. I weep for the non-existent tears of non-existent angels, hearts split wide-open, damn bloody blossoms. In their world, there are a zillion toasty toes that tingle. A toast to toes, Love:

Lucifer has it better. K-vetch! He knows what he knows. He spoke in that desert, in this world, truly too, to someone divine, who said, because he knew what he knew, Get Thee Behind Me! They could be lovers.

A toast to work. Protest too much? Mishugeneh. Ongapotchket Rocket. You lied through the teeth of that tiger. I bet my thirsty protestant catholic buddhist jewish muslim etc. soul on odd protesting numbers, on odd magical letters. Eight with the value of nine, I said. They, but are they, only ink-on-paper, but 7-7-7, you found me?—and you are not cruel nor do you throw stones? Five, you said. Five, never the even. Only the odd. A world in five rings, I see, two lovers trapped there? So I said, Theta. I said, This-my-heart, Christo Smart, but also wet-behind-the-ears, I said. I said, I didn’t know what I said. You see, I can lie marvelously, Insha’allah, as you.                                                     

But did the angel who said, Permanently won over Villainously yours, Fervently?—Did the Id-Angel with the itty-bitty spider, the linguistic shenanigamatrix, lie to me, as above so below? What about the letter-magic of that spike in the brain, to think and to open the cellular matter of this world with? Pfff! Theo Hakola Margaret Cavendish Carson McCullers Cat Stevens, their letter-magic, old so old there, and in this world, here be My Cat: hearthunters five.                                                                   

No, Dove, not a dove, but three doves appeared. What did that mean? I saw the alchemy of the lie. Who could hurt La Bona Dea, the fallen fauna, yet curl around her? You lied when you said that your soul was flint, inert spark there—yet she there, your beloved? Be-loved. In this world, we are the syllables, because, dove, angel, and/or permanent blasphemer, we be, permanently won over villainously fervently, the alchemist, the teratological fauna—em-dash, I said it, I- susurrus, have the stigmata to prove it.

Truly I do, 

—Theta Lianna I.C.