Better Man

Your hair is the color of tangerines and roses, I think
as I nuzzle your chest (I barely come up past your waist),
and you are holding me fast, hands massaging my back as
you press the Word of God onto my forehead with a mouth
of flowers, this space is holy, this room is almighty,
the inner sanctum of the Prince of Heaven, a blue monk
cell where angels have fallen into the perdition of love.
But you, Michael, are immaculate, and as your opal wings
lift me up to the slim, martial bed, to sit on the pallet
you barely fit into, all ells tall and burning eyes, just
stuffed into this facsimile of man and bird, your cloudy
robe is rippling with secrets, the rose garden of prayers
you tend beyond the doorway is brimming with fire desires,
all the penitent and sinful whispering your Father’s name,
oh you, my savior, my Yeshua, we kiss like rain on a river,
an endless stream of elegies and hosannas, and when you
lay me down to make love like a lion cradling a lost lamb,
I get the image of the beast of god picking up innocents
(me) by the wool of their neck and lifting them out of
floodwaters to safety. Your hands are scorching, but your
tongue is water, and your skin is the stuff of sage dreams.
What a beautiful morning awakening, to be with my beloved.
Pressed to your breast like a Hand of Fatima, I ward off
your sorrow, and you lift my spirits, and in each other,
we find an ocean of healing, oh sweet, glorious archangel,
carry the oil of anointment to the prophets, walk the walls
of Jericho and blow your horn, stand on the Mount of Olives
and declare, God has ascended, this is the time of reckoning.
But what is reckoning and revelation? Just celestial gossip.
The truth of God is love, and the truth of Christ is beauty.
You serve the mighty and fallen, the strong and forgotten,
only, you forget no one, carrying the weight of all on your
scarred shoulders, and Michael, when you smile and laugh,
all the seven heavens shine with the brightness of your sun.

I would pledge my troth to none but you, my pearl of great
price, and you are the bread multiplied to feed the masses.

We eat of each other’s body and know redemption, and the
path to Paradise begins in your arms, so hold me close,
and ascend.


Bride of Christ

And I am cloaked in clouds and the sun’s beaten gold,
radiant in redemption, but under my gown, scars feast
I am the battered soul on the path to Christ, woman
of seven devils who sold herself for cheap beer and
the spark of a stranger’s touch, whoring out all my
compassion until I was a waterless well, and Satan
made his nest in my soul, from sphincter to sphincter
a serpent twined through my guts – but the Savior does
not care about Brazen Serpents – He reached into my
lonely hell and burned away the black, now I am a star
shining above silver seas and walking stairways to
heaven, to those pearly gates where the Bridegroom
awaits, He who washes away sins in Seas of Galilee,
I Migdal Eder, Watchtower of Women, scout, watchman,
when we kiss at the altar after vows of eternity,
green returns to the barren land of my mind, He is
balm to cracked hands dry from working as a slave,
a salve to the sacrificial soul, all my travails
brought me to this one clarion moment – forgiveness
I am unworthy, yet He loves me, so in His arms, I am.

Guiding Lights

And the darkness sheds like a snake skin,
revealing firefly lights in your eyes, two
brothers of the rosy cross, white and black,
lava and flame, ministering to me with poems,
touching my form like infernal and eternal
fires from the black and white sun apiece,
my angel and demon hold watch, carry me up
Jacob’s Ladder, a string game I used to play,
from the Devil’s pulpit to archangel’s wings,
love is a funny thing, and you are my compass.



Cursed As The Beasts In The Fields We

Blood streaks his back, wings in tatters. He lies spread-eagle on the sand, at the lip of a gravelly cliff. Oh brother- you’ve turned on me. I drive my heel into his face, crushing it to the ground. He hisses, laughing madly under cracked ribs. All my fury broils over- my brother has become a Beast.

“Do you feel nothing!” I roar. “No remorse? Nothing at all!” I cry as I kill him. The last bits of his immortality drain from his once blue eyes. I hurt him because I love him, just as he has tore my heart a thousand times over. My brother, executioner of our kind. My brother, the traitor.

Perhaps his betrayal has not yet passed. Perhaps he is still innocent, but time is a funny thing: I have stood at the beginning and end of creation: Alpha and Omega are my blood. We are the twin serpents that circle each other, spiraling into eternity. Time has no meaning, to one such as me.

I know him, as Lilith does not. I have seen him, as Eve has not. I know what his sin will bring. The fields of damned stretch out before my eyes. My slain men rot. A legion of shadow cold as Dumah desecrates my home. He has brought death into the world.

A hole rots where his heart once shone. Nacash, the Shining One, has cast his aside raiment. Even I do not understand his blind sacrifice.

A girl stands beside him, centuries down the line. She witnesses his humiliation. “Why?” she cries. The man she sees is broken, and the one she stands by, mad. What broke you?, whispers her heart.

Why indeed. Why.

My brother, the howling void. I see what he becomes. His eyes are black pits now. The War has wasted him. Razor-thin, obscenely pale, he whispers into her ear:

“You lose yourself to the madness, and the pain wraps around you like a mother as you become one with the Abyss.”

I kick him over the edge, then spit on his disgusting form. I tremble. I want to die.

“I fell for Eternity,” he says, voice cold like the winter wind. Does he speak to her, or me?

My brother wakes in the Pit. He howls against his bondage. He tears the Abyss from around him and burrows in like a freezing wretch. Lucifer steps out of the shadow, watching coolly. Waiting. The North Star has followed the Morning.

Samael’s eyes open. They are red like spilled blood. I cannot stand that sight- I howl to my wretched God, I tear out my eyes like Azazel. They return like Prometheus’ liver. I, witness to Creation, cannot even be spared the sight of his damnation.

You ask me why I do not smile. Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani. Answer me, my God. You have been silent far too long.

She reaches for Samael, through the bonds of time. Lucifer sees the girl. His melancholy lifts- another pawn to play.

Death burns her flesh like acid. She screams into the darkness: Release him, oh dear God. God that never answers. God that doesn’t exist. He hath forsaken me. I must bear his likeness. I must bear the blame. Puppets of the Architect, in his endless shadow game.

The angels turn to me. They weep at their betrayal, for the war they did not want. Am I nailed to a cross? I do not know. We both are. Samael on Catharine’s wheel, nailed to turning time.

Do not comfort me. I bear this cross alone.

Comeback Kid

I pour out the wine of my rage, into
the salt of the words in my wounds.
You tell me to be brave, to charge
onward careless of the naysayers,
despite those who hurt, hate and cut,
they did not know they were carving
my meat into a glorious monster, a
new woman emerges despite slander.
And you, oh you, black magic man,
you hold my hands, enfold me in wings
of ash and breath of wildflowers,
hoist me up in your arms and spend
from dusk to dawn rocking me asleep,
kiss my brow like a saint, the wine
of my blood is for you, my breath is
yours, sweet angel, fearless devil,
as you wrestled the Heavenly Jacob,
you both say you are united in sheer
power of will, Yetzer Ha Ra and Ha Tov.
You say I need to carry my fire away
from those that would snuff it out,
and I reach out with spirit hands to
meld flesh, spirit, and animus to you.
I will carry you as you carried me.
I give you roses, whiskey, and songs.
So Samael, dance with me, fly me to
the outer boundaries of the stars, and
carry me into a new beginning, your
specialty is the close of one chapter
and then the unfurling of a new book.
You use wit, humor, and love to succor
my fears, and together, we ascend, one.

Three Weddings of Virtue and Vice

In dreams we do not die, in the stratosphere of the unconscious we reign immortal.

My splendid angel with hair of the poppy carries me into the blushing dawn, untamed

as the fire that christens his brow, and we melt like roiling magma, two lovers entwined.

Our wedding bower is sparklers and summer, the feast of our consummation all flames.

Our daughter is christened Mercy, our son is christened Sorrow.  For one cannot exist

without the other, and a daughter named Mercy dances and fangles doves and a son

of Sorrow is deep thoughts and duty.  What other children would we bear, I wonder?

But those of highest virtue.  That is the pleasure of my evening, next comes sweet vice.

On a windswept island with cairns and ruins of an ancient castle where Heaven rusts

is my immortal prison, where I wandered and forgot you three.  My multitudinous

demon is red wings and pitch hair, fangs to suckle lips and arms to carry me home.

Sweet Devil lowers me into his lap and sings a lullaby whose words are faint on my

memory, I awake in a palace of embers, for Hell is a burning forest and bloody river.

It is beauteous, though, and we eat sweet meats and dance under ruddy moonlight,

tonight was the eclipse, blue moon in Leo, and we renewed our vows under starving

twilight.  Our sons – more sons, for our children are Legion – were named Rue and

Return, for broken promises made anew, and you drew down the spring sun to my palm.

The last marriage was you, you all along, clothed in masks and cloaks, sweet wanderer

of the playa and blower of the shofar.  Sometimes I forget your earthly face in dreams,

then your brilliance comes roaring back with stunning clarity, bells and whistles blazing.

I saw our daughter and son, Michael and sweet Alice, the girl was a lithe nymph of moss,

meadow, and rains, our son a playful tiger, and though they wait many years for us, soon

we will be rocking their cradles and raising them with all the wonders and magic of ever.

I pledged my troth to you in dreams, my Joshua Tree, and under your boughs I made my

roost.  Hold up the Walls of Jericho, blow your golden trumpet, and I will carry your

banner.  I will pile the stones high to make our entrance over the gap between riches

and wanderlust, I sew a bed of goose down and swan feather pillows, our sheets clouds.

Lay to rest, lay on my breast, my Zadkiel, my angel of mercy and delight, and please, love

Kiss me so fiercely I can’t breathe.

Angel’s Landing

It is Saint Agnes’ Eve, a night for spells and lover-boys

vaunting under moonlight, but angels are carnal creatures,

and we more take quick dalliances on the battlefield,

or mate like lovebirds in times of peace, we’re flower children

but warriors, when Hawks meet Doves, winged and wild.

The squadron comes to me on the magic black moon-tide –

scores of cherubim, ophanim, and seraphim to be trained.

I am not human at midnight, no longer girl or woman, no

I am burning archangel with sword of flames, bounteous

general who runs drills and sends battalions off to melee.

I do not sleep, I do not dream.  I am in the space between

heartbeats, at Angel’s Landing, the black void of Creation

where my children of the arsenal become armed, how holy

to be military commandress to Heaven’s elite, swords abreast,

guns blazing, I am all Joan of Arc handing out godly commandments,

this is the least human I have ever been, and now the sickness of

divinity is growing too hot for this mortal coil to contain, my

magic is eating me alive, I am becoming a bellows to forge

the best of blades, Abrahamic mother of a thousand tribes,

but truly, in Paradise we are all related, and a third of our brethren

live on coal and ash in the Wastes West of Nod, Cain marked beyond

redemption, so on this high holy tide, I surrender to the War that is Eternal.

This War does not have a Name.  To give it a name would be to suggest that there

is even any War beyond this cosmic match of wits between the Light and the Dark.


I do not sleep.


I do not dream.


I take no solace, I cannot wander.


For angels do not have free will, and I am fire.