Getting ready to shift

Copyright 2017 Stuart Dummit. Leather boots on a leather jacket.

©2017 Stuart Dummit All Rights Reserved. DEStudios Productions and StuartDMT.

In a few days I’ll be shifting the old posts and new material for the Boot Series to their own page, freeing the main page for other projects, including more text posts. I know I don’t get a lot of traffic from the text, but it is important and I do wish I could find a way to get folk to read and comment on the writing. In any case, the new BOOTS TAB will be up this weekend and a redesigned DEStudios site will be running soon. More boots, more leather, more art, music, philosophy, musings, humor, stuff. Lots of stuff. And videos. More videos. Until then, become aware of your body and that which surrounds it. You inhabit your flesh for only a short time, make good use of the sensations it can render and experience.


a first draft of poem for Orphée

I will dream I will dream
I will dream I will dream
I will dream I will dream
I will dream I will dream

read it aloud
read it aloud
read it aloud
read it aloud

I will dream I have dreamed
I will dream I have dreamt
I will dream I have dreamed
I will dream I have dreamt

Reed it aloud
Red it aloud
Reed it aloud
Red it aloud

Say it aloud
Say it out loud
Say it aloud
Say it out loud

Reed it Red it Dream it Dreamt it
Read it Read it Dream it Dream’t
Dream it Dream’t
Reed Re’d
Out loud
All ‘oud
All out

Dream it Loud it All loud Allow
Dream it Out it Allow loud it
Dream it seem it sound it say it
I dream I dreamed I say I dreamt I said I reed I red I sed
a stream of breath blown across the reed, a tone, a hue I dreamed of dew
fracturing light from dawn’s golden touch, sprayed and splayed in sheets
of told transmissions, received by dreaming listeners, colors, singers
Out loud.

the Text stands for itself it stands alone out loud allow it to stand as freestanding text alone

©2017 Stuart Dummit

A Roque of Ixpremiads

Lode, the waining trembles of sentient orthonauts fly! What dreamy and miasmic turnbulls wait in the gnarly wings? One treads not on such dainty, delicate tomes. The festooned reliquaries grumble and hum with unsanitary expectations. One does not suffer such imbrications lightly.

– Stout heart! Fondle knot the tender eggs of men! Your unfiled nails might scratch and tear and summon sanguine leakage upon your hands and the earth between your feet!

Crimson fluids gush from fresh rent flesh and congeal into wrens and rooks and other winged beasties. Clear water, fecund with womanish stuffs wash away the evidence, but the roque remains. Do not fear the ixpremiad, but embrace it. Make it your own. Color it in scents of pastures and loose-clothed mornings like the marmalade of the Sun, sweet up front and bitter at the back.

Centurion! Do you heed the warnings of your sister’s mother? What works for her falls flat for you. Sitting in static at the foot of your birthing bed, Time’s gondola and gambit conspire to dongle to the status quo. Such translations rarely do justice to the anticipation and afterscent of desire’s placenta.

©2017 Stuart Dummit

Pitney Purfoy’s Problem

Without too much effort the ludicrous lackey lined the tub with wax and honey, thinking all the while that what he was doing wasn’t wasteful but wished-for. Ah, the musings of a marshmallowed minion without mind or manner attuned to his business!

longing, lonNeocubist Portrait Reconfiguredging for a purpose beside the one his mother taught him

longing, longing for a purpose other than the one his father aspired to

Pitney Purfoy waddled away from the tub and picked his nose in the process. He had picked it from a chart on the wall in his hall that very same day, but had decided it did not suit him, so he picked another then another then another, only to find each one was clogged and second rate, despite the aquiline lines and sharp and noble profile. Purfoy didn’t want to hear anything about it from his mates, so he turned his head when he picked and flicked the clog into the air from behind his back. No one will see, no one will know.

I tell you what, he said, laughing at his own untold joke, next time I’ll pick one that requires less picking! Too much work, I say!

Purfoy you old such and such! Did you get that there tub lined with the tacks and money?

Tax and money? Thought you said wax and honey! Those two go together just as well if not better, Boss. And where am I supposed to get the tax and money anyways? Ain’t it something I don’t got? Like couth and grammar?

The Boss man, who was called Bob or Bellicose Bob by those who didn’t know him scratched the top of his hairless head and shook the waddle of his neck.

By gum you’re right there Purfoy! You’re right and I’m left here wondering what I was thinking. Apparently I wasn’t and that ain’t never a good thing. Never a good thing!

Poor Purfoy stood there, wanting to pick his nose again, clogged as it was, but with Bellicose Bob standing right there, scratching his own pate, confused by the pointlessness of the process, he was too self conscious. Instead he pondered his longings and those of his parents. Had he exchanged his for theirs? Mayhaps, he thought, mayhaps. Then he envisioned flicking the clog if he allowed himself to pick it, and it landing in BB’s pocket or even in his eye. He laughed and sniffed, but not well because of the clog, then lowered his head and drew a booger shaped squiggle in the dirt with the toe of his boot.

Bob was still wondering where his mind had gone wrong when Pitney Purfoy’s pantomime popped and he rolled on his side to see the clock face, with no nose to speak of, alarming him as to the hour and minute of the half day of morning.

I had better cook the coffee and pour it down fast without scorching my tongue and searing my throat and get me to my job lest my dream become meme and I lose my mindless mind.

His toes reached for the floor and found the rug and its dust and particles of decay and eased his weight onto his left foot and then his right. Padding padding padding he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He popped a stale gum drop from the counter into his mouth and rolled it from side to side, dissolving the minicubes of sugar that protected the flavored gelatin beneath. Lime. Limey. Ought to have tea instead. But that would require lemon. Faster though but not as good. Coffee it is.

While the water in the kettle made psychic contact with the flames on the other side of the aluminum and copper wall, Purfoy padded into the hallway and considered the chart there.

Which one today? Long and straight? Short and broad, sharp and pointed, dull and cavernous? Who knows what criterion to use in such an important business.

Close your eyes and grab one, affix it with care and, sniff sniff sniff! Just the smell of the cooking coffee is enough to wake a boy up. Hurrah!

©2016 Stuart Dummit


[Author’s Note: I’ve made a few slight changes to the text, most notably, the last name of the protagonist. I think it sounds better. Other modifications are minor but help the reading flow a bit better.]

with words and ideas swimming between ears that haven’t heard anything new in forever, the brain encaged mind of Sobriquet Jones tried its best to arrange things in a usable sequence.

My hand hurts, my stomach protrudes, my dick is only half hard and I have no food in the fridge, he said aloud to no one in particular. No one was there to hear it. I know there isn’t anyone here, and we are all on the same page anyway, so it might as well be an empty room. The walls here have no ears.

He turned around, his blue plaid bathrobe, beltless and flannel in its warmth and flow, followed absently in a swirl and then hung lifeless from his shoulders once the turn was completed. No food on the counter, either. But there was coffee.

Coffee! The nectar of the Gods! Nay, not the sweet syrup that kisses the lips and licks the tongue and coats the throat, but more. Again, talking to the earless walls and the feckless fridge, ’Tis not nectar of the Gods, not Ambrosia, but Ichor. Miraculous lifeblood of the immortals. Hot and black and bitter and searing and all the things a man could need to clear out the gunk from throat and thought.

Rinsing the plastic bound glass tube of yesterday’s scum and grinding the beans, roasted to an imperfect pitch, like a well sung song by a slightly deaf amateur, Sobriquet prepared the press to brew a pot. It isn’t food that will nourish, but it will be food that can motivate. Motivation is an important thing, but only when there is a goal. With eyes half closed he said aloud making signs in the air of various geometric shapes and 2013-02-07 13.46.21potential forms, Yesss. The goal for which I require motivation is the acquisition of a worthy goal. I bless you in the name of Plato and Aristotle, Zeus, Odin, Krishna, and Jehovah and Heisenberg. And Schoenberg.

There is no knock at the door, no person with whom to share the silliness or the snobbery. Sobriquet is alone. He has been for quite some time. No one enters in from another room, there is no stairway that leads up to a parapet nor is there a portal from some unseen fold in the metaverse, a brane as it has been called by some theoretical physicist who wrote a book once that was devoured by artists and laypersons and other brain encaged minds looking for answers to questions they hadn’t the synapses to articulate.

Sobrie, he said to himself, pour the fucking water into the pot and let it brew. Four minutes to make it strong. Strong like you. Yes, yessssssss you. I am happy I am healthy I am wealthy I am wise.

The water, boiling in the white plastic hotpot, gurgled and spat its desire to be fused to infuse, and the old sagging man in the blue robe used his powers to make it so. He stirred the grounds with the end of a chopstick that was laying across the top of a dirty water glass, then replaced it after a rinse in the sink. Drawing the robe close around him, his semi hard dick was now flaccid and hidden by the dark blue fabric. He padded lightly into the adjoining room to gather dirty coffee cups and possibly to take a piss. Four minutes it would take for a strong pot of ichor. Four minutes.

No urination necessary, and only two empty cups abandoned on the same table were retrieved, and the four minutes were not quite up. He rinsed out the cleaner of the two cups and wiped the inner tubular side with his index finger, then wiped his finger on his robe, and then took the chopstick and stirred the slurry again. He rinsed the stick again and again laid it across the top of the used water glass and then fitted the screened plunger to the top of the glass tube and slowly began to press presss pressssss like a Frenchman until the black blood of the bean was separated from the chaff, and with a solemn incantation the pre-transubstantiated communion was decanted into the cup, decorated with a faded design, ignored since forever.

Bless this cup of coffee which is the blood of the gods who are immortal and who bitch and moan and fight and frolic and urge and purge and don’t give a fuck until after the fact. Let it quench my thirst for purpose, let it strap soft and supple sandals with the wings of Hermes to my aging cracked feet, and propel me to prosperity and lack of want, that will signal the end of all things. Amen.

©2016 Stuart Dummit

preposition proposition

March 14, 2016

a.k.a. Pi Day, or even better, Rounded Pi Day     3.14 16. 𝛑

Here I am, sitting in my chair near the kitchen window. If I were to write instead, “Here I am, sitting in my chair at the kitchen window,” how would that make you feel? What would that communicate to you? Is it a matter of fact, or a matter of style? Is there some information here that is essential for you? These are not rhetorical questions. This is an inquiry.

I want to be able to communicate in both broad, lustrous strokes as well as fine, elegant painted-in edges. I seek a way of writing that moves effortlessly from macro to microscopic and then back again. There is a dream in me, not fully realized, that shifts frames of reference with silky ease and with brutal crashes. There is a hope, a desire, and as stated earlier, a dream, to coddle and coax and bash and fuck language, the language I am most familiar with, American English, like clay or steel, oil paint or waßerfarben, and reveal layer after layer of emotion, meaning, intent and wonder. And to that end, I ask a question: can the mere substitution of a preposition either subtly or outrageously influence the flavor, not just the meaning, but the olfactory memory of a scene?

verso recto in pencil on paper – second one


this is different than the last one. it is the same person, but a different window is open. don’t let the wind blow the papers on the table off onto the floor, just taste the graphite with the tip of your tongue, and the spittle will cement the sheets to your work space.

as always, all rites reserved. you can move it around as you wish, but the tether to the content creator remains intact. ©2016 Stuart Dummit