Oily Omen

I go far, but not too far, honey, for the signs have already given their message.

I have danced with the devil, and I spin out my mind,

to get just that boundary of space and time,

and rewind, cause it’s moving faster than I can think,

and the words spinning reels in my mind….

see?

I got to the brink.

 

Listen, but not too closely, for too closely and you see the minstrels waving you into their thicket, and you’ll hear the demon’s battle cry on the land opposite.

My band-aids are positive memories and declarative itineraries.

Oh no! I’m becoming a battery, my eyes are twitching like lizards, and fingers move quicker than quicker, like a layer of tiny sheets of bubbles, one after the other, light and sweetly.

The oil on the street told me to fly as a bird, and I turned, and prepared myself. I heard the distant battle cry, which transformed into the the calls of my ancestors.

I don’t want to collapse, but I must admit, I’ve always been leaking life.

And recently, I’ve discovered that I am life, and I’m choosing my destiny.

Those moments, on a vision quest, when I wish for someone to auto-correct my thoughts, I realize I am my own biggest fan and critic, appreciating myself for how I see the world and the cynic. And I’ve held on for so long that this world is much more than I can see,I hope to take others with me.

Okay, enough for my acceptance speech.

All this fire, all this burning inside me, pressing on me to keep going, keep going, all of the time.

I think I’m a mad scientist, a mushroom growing beneath the shade of a tree, processing and keeping it together,

or so the street told me.

 

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Where do you go to get free?

Seeds sprout into roots into trunks into leaves into fruit and sway in the wind,

sister brain.

Gnarled, twisted chakra wheels spinning in time

producing dried fruit, too soon or too late.

When it is time, you shall know,

it is written in the stars.

Look out, to question, is this me?

Is that me?

Do the walls, do the binding,

teach me something about me?

Where do I exist like the waters

of intuition flowing from

the Moon Goddess?

Phoebe, Titaness,

Binah from Kether.

And as princess,

I say, “not here”, “not here”.

Mother,

where do I go to be me?

“As the tides come and go,

the cycles wither and create,

you are born and you die,

you are merely

Becoming”

she says,

“Be aware of that which you become”.

This mental fecundity is

made out of the sparks

of a swordfight.

It is in the soul of which I must grow.

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Alone

I am all too deeply aware,

of how I am alone with people.

Crowds and parties make me even more so.

When I am at home,

my imagination keeps me company,

and that has always been my preferred zone.

Panic creeps in when someone tries to snatch me,

“what’s new?”

“what do you do?”

You cannot feel me out,

I will not let you,

unless you are crawling at my feet,

and banging on my door,

desperate to know

everything and more.

If you try, I will respect it.

But I am fine over here,

leave me to be as a voyeur.

Do not stop inviting me to things,

but I will be over here,

on this chair, or outside

in the cold, fresh air.

Leave me be,

you are not for me.

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Drunk and Amused/ Invocation of Elegua

The spirits passed down to me through my ancestry,

imbibe and intoxication.

The silence is there as a constant audience.

Perform!

I shattered the glass, I peed in the street,

I said the most imperfect thing,

and watched them in periphery.

I held my glass,

by the sharp, broken stem

and laughed at myself.

I am a witch,

happy in the company of me,

the Mistress of Misrule.

I get the last laugh,

through patiently waiting.

My eyes are here,

penetrate them.

We can fuck in the bushes.

Not too many see me,

and that is the way it should be.

Laughing in the corner,

we are all alone.

Might as well have some fun.

The addicts and comediennes have something in common.

Escape!

Escape!

Escape!

And this is my surrender, my white flag and my olive branch.

You can meet me where the weak don’t play,

where a lady in red stands out amongst a sea of whiteness,

where the sparkler is a dud,

where the only choice is laughter.

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I Am a Moon

I am a moon,

orbiting a planet.

That planet is happiness and the search for meaning.

I am a moon, and I get glimpses and promises,

the fantasy of Life Well Lived.

There is a well of emptiness.

Another name for it is potential.

And there are composers,

gathering up the energy for a symphony.

I am a moon,

and there are meteors flying by,

calling out my name.

“Come back! You are too dark to be seen.”

And I shift in place and leave because I do not know,

how to use attention.

The composer is magnificent,

in her ability to create a circus out of suits and ties,

in her ability to create a chandelier out of bent copper,

in her ability to find love in empty stares and slow recognition.

I am a moon,

orbiting this ability to create.

To know it is there but to shy away

is to constantly fail for no attempt

is made.

Oh, how I love those meteors!

Oh, how I hate those meteors!

The angels in biblical lore,

guiding us back to the moment,

telling us we are always seen.

 

Each creation can only be

transcendent in the moment.

This moment,

not the realities that are

outlined in a fear of the future.

This moment, not the lines

of belief patterns that force us to

create, create, create the same

over and over again.

 

The moon rises 4 minutes later each day.

Planetary bodies are subject to time.

My body is subject to time.

 

I am a moon, that orbits the same planet

every day.

That planet is possibility.

Dreaming of Mars and Pluto,

what can I wear?

How do I get there?

That is where I am meant to be.

Not here!

I am not a moon orbiting the planet of possibility!

I have not received the proper adventure!

This. is. not. my. life.

 

We are scared to be as slow as a snail, for in our blood is the

DNA of conquest.

Planetary bodies make the same trip day after day, with limited variation.

And we do not blame them for their lack of imagination!

For their limited experience!

We thank the heavens for consistency in the void.

How can we conquer the unseen?

The only part that’s up to me.

 

I am a moon,

orbiting the planet of possibility,

admiring the skills of the composers.

It is difficult to wish to be somebody else,

for it might not be possible.

It is odd to consider a moon’s transformation into a composer.

How can we marry the odds?

Will I ever learn?

I am a moon. I am a moon. I am a moon.

But this is my prayer to come through.

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Love

It’s like, I want to hold your hand while we walk to my class.

It’s like trusting you to be there after.

It’s like getting used to you being there, waiting for me.

When did I outsource my anchor in you?

Was I ever not scared of being alone?

It’s like,if you love me enough to stay, I’ll see you.

Because you wouldn’t be anywhere besides where you wanted to be.

It’s like, let’s hold hands for a little while.

It’s like, I want to feel safe in you.

Anchors are the awakened ones, but they have feet.

They go about their lives and catch the fallen.

Love is inclusive and unconditional.

Do you need a hand to hold?

Because I can’t get enough of the stuff.

And my marriage bed has a starfish pattern from sleeping alone,

but it’s okay because designating one other person as my love

while one eye constantly scans the horizon for

fear of missing out, and then punishing myself for it,

has never been good.

I want to hold your hand, until it doesn’t feel right anymore.

One hour.

A month.

Two weeks.

Twelve years.

I don’t ever want to be alone, except momentarily,

but I don’t have it all figured out.

Are you a person who anchors me?

Are you drifting this direction as well?

We can drift together, and when you see your turn off,

make the decision. Is it important to leave?

Would you rather stay?

My path seems rather narrow, and

I don’t expect it to make sense. But if you want

to drift with me, I’d love your company

while we figure out this life thing.

Our time here seems short, seems long.

Please keep good company.

 

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Air is the Trickiest of Elementals

Inside this aching skull, and I did so much work for it not to be aching anymore. But inside of this aching skull, this town reflects the down and out, those who aren’t fully alive, or maybe they are but they are filled with desert ghosts of a different hue, darker than most care to venture to.

Why are you here? Do you go to school? I live here to haunt the children, to show them how not to be. Children of the nineties, we’re haunted by suburban daydreams and half-acid trips where we see that none of this matters yet all of this matters because we made our lives dedicated to it mattering.

I’ve built myself up to a level I’m proud of and of which I tell nobody about. I am haunted by my perceptions, and of this I know. Who dips their toes into the schizophrenic ocean for fun? Huxley requested a dose of psychedelics while he explored death. Can you exercise too much? Is surfing a casual hobby to undertake?

False core beliefs. Back to false core beliefs. You are dirty. You are a whore. You are not real or honest with anybody. Your life is a lie. You are ugly. It’s cruel to have a face people cozy up to, it’s cruel to have a face boys dream about and girls smile at, while underneath you’ve been carrying around the torch for the devil. Nobody could see it. It’s not their fault.

I’ve tried to steal love for too long. I will hurt you, eventually. I will take all of the love you give me and forget about it. But the universe will hand me your karmic regards, so don’t worry your sweet little thang about it. The dark ominous throes of despair come when we realize the gifts we failed to be grateful for. The doom is downward. The doom is self-defeating and ends in death, in your death. How many times is up to you. How many times do you want a go-around on this ride?

 

Card from the deck de St. Croix

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