Jah Michael

Hallelujah, that the weak may be mighty.

Hallelujah, that the warrior might know peace.

Hallelujah, that the singer’s locs be long.

Hallelujah, that the artist’s palette is never dry.

 

Jah Michael, God Michael, Yah Michael.

Red hair held back by a paintbrush.

Caressing Bob Ross landscapes on canvas.

I know Hebrew in my dreams, but I know your face

in every single shard of you, Michael, ochre-splattered

jeans, five o’clock shadow, losing yourself in brush strokes.

 

Hallelujah sings the broken man as he learns to love again.

Jah Michael, God Michael, Yah Michael.

Reflection of God.  He Who is God.  Image of God.

I may be the moon but you are my sun.

And in your artist’s studio, Michael, I find respite.

 

Hallelujah toll the bells of Paradise.  Honor to Thy Lord.

He is not My Lord, He is not Your Lord, for You are Him,

and to worship God is to worship Love and Creation.

To worship Jah is to make sweet life on a paintbrush.

 

God is a Poet.  God is a Lover.  God is an Artist.

Jah is All, Hallelujah, sweet trembling soul.

His strength cradles me, cradles you, lifts up

the dusky night and brings Paradaisical Day.

 

Michael, sweet Jah, sweet Yah, in you I know God.

In you I know Father.  In you, I know redemption

in the colors of grass and wine, gilded in gold leaf.

 

You painted me into Creation and breathed life into my

trembling hands.  I would die for you again,  always, only

save your tears for sacred reunions, this is not

goodbye.

 

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Childhood’s End

So it’s official.  UFOs exist.  We are no longer alone.  But we never were to begin with.

Ancient man did not have aliens.  Ancient man had fairies.  Ancient man had elves.  Ancient man had demons.  Ancient man had gods.  Ancient man had angels.  Beings descended from other realms to visit earth, teach humanity, love us, tempt us, star children who imparted forbidden fruits and Enki’s me and Thoth’s stolen wisdom and Odin’s mead.

God is the Void Mother of space.  Mother Nature.  Aliens?  They are angels, fairies, land wights, gods, spirits, and I have seen them in the flesh, in the astral, housed them in my own veins and been raised by the glorious suckers since my very first memory of Samael at two, crying in my crib as a demon sang me to sleep.

Childhood’s End.  Stranger in a Strange Land.  Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.  All are some of my favorite books, and point to the fact that we are not alone.  In Childhood’s End, the occult and psychic fields are the way humanity’s conscious advances.  We outgrow the human body, and the “demons” we feared are our initiators.  In Strangers in a Strange Land, hippies grok the Archangel Michael and ascend to blissed out heights on his flesh.  But Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is the closest to my own experiences of travelling the comsos and otherworlds – they are full of humor, love, struggle, riddles, and lots of towels.  Aliens love a good joke.  Aliens like to fuck around.

For when you master space travel, interdimensional travel, ascend to an energy body as well as physical vessels that permeate existence, you get fucking bored, and those cute hairless apes are fun to talk to.

I once asked Samael as a child why he was so interested in me.  He’s pretty antisocial.  I’ve seen his spaceships, his eldritch alien forms, his true abyssal form of dark matter and black holes.  Every black hole is the Grim Reaper’s heart.

“I’m Death.  I sift through humanity like dust.  But you are intriguing dust.  A fleck of gold.  You called to me, and I to you.”

He also has a thing for pretty women.  Aliens still bang, after all, and it is as much for mixing energy bodies and spiritual enlightenment as it is for procreation and mindblowing orgasms.  He’s looked like monsters from the Cambrian Explosion.  He’s looked like black holes that I dissolve and die in in big final blissed out ecstasy.  He’s been the classic ET, he’s been clouds of energy, etc.  Usually he likes to fuck around looking like the original Dracula, in a bathrobe, sipping a red wine, smoking a cigar.  Drugs and alcohol are a thing for aliens.  So are potato chips.  I got shoved under a table at an archdemon council at eight with a whole bag of them when Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Rofocale, Samael, and Lucifer were politicking.  They also like to feed annoying elementary school girls juice and cookies, then put them in time out when they break alien equipment.

Before I knew Zadkiel, Samael, Uriel, Asmodeus, Metatron, Raphael, and the others as angels, I knew they were aliens.  They manipulated my body with energy, healed wounds, held me up with invisible hands from falling off cliffs, apparated in my house as eight foot tall monstrous shadows (thanks, Sam) that smelled of sulfur and slammed doors.  I called them names in my own made up language, sang to the Morning Star as my best friend, the embodiment of it, read a Wrinkle in Time and a Wind in the Door and Many Waters and recognized them as angels finally.  Flew with them through the cosmos.  Rode Zadkiel’s back through the Perseids and held back the rage of black holes as Samael wept tears of poison.

I never had a chance not to believe.  Not when you’re not human, not really.

Humans don’t chant Hebrew in their sleep without knowing the language in the waking world.  Humans don’t see into other dimensions and see spirits and ghosts.  Humans don’t meet God after drunkenly soliciting the Archangel Michael to meet his mother, then have their heart stop and lay catatonic in bed as their soul is ripped out of their body into the seas of Her Cosmos.  Humans don’t have aliens visit them in their sleep and do etheric surgery on their bodies – sweet pain of razors and probes and drills and electricity at chakral and nerve points.  Humans don’t have past life memories of angelic warfare and a life in other dimensions.  I may be in a mortal coil, but I can hear and see and feel the aliens.  I built a tin foil hat at 7 to keep Samael’s touch away, but all he did was laugh.  Not in control of my powers, at 12 my body froze and I projected to the second heaven, into a battle between angels and the Void Monsters of which Samael is master, only to nearly die just as Michael pulled me out of harms way, shouted my soul’s name at me, and electrocuted me back into my body with vicious recollections of angel guts and beheaded seraphim and shadow demons so cold and wicked and evil.  “Zophael!” he screamed at me, pulling my soul from the path of killing claws and into a bloodsoaked glade.

Aliens.  They die.  They bleed.  They go mad.  Immortality is a curse, in a way.  I became human to escape the pain.  I died defending the Prince of Heaven with a spear of poison through my mangled heart from the Devil, only to have Samael stitch his own rotting heart into me.  I’m nothing more than an expendable vessel really, the Vitriol Girl, Green Lion that Bleeds Gold from the Sun, Lapis Exillis in her breast.  “You sprang from the heart of Lucifer,” Samael told me at seventeen as he pulled me out of my body on a car trip where I raged against him.  “It is my own black heart.”  At 18 on December 31 on my birthday, meditating under an old rotting crab apple tree in my backyard, Samael showed me a vision of him as Satan in the Paradasical garden, his ribs branches, his heart red fruit, and I a naked Eve with blonde hair dressings eating his heart.  The fruit – the meat – settled into my belly and the fire of immortality and the knowledge of gods lit within.  Eve is a metaphor.  Jophiel, or Zophael, is not.  I have lived lives as an angel.  I have lived lives as a demon, reborn like Moses a babe in the reeds of the Styx, to be raised by the Devil as his child bride in Hell.

I told the Abrahamics to fuck off and ran away to Earth.  I lived a human life as Odin’s volva and skald.  I reincarnated into the Yngling bloodline.  I lived other human lives, and I haven’t been back to the other planets.

I don’t intend to for another eighty years.

Aliens fuck.  Aliens bleed.  Aliens walk among us, either disguised as humans or in human skins like me.  I’ve seen Samael physically multiple times over my life.  I see spirits in their energetic forms about thirty times each day.  Each one a brilliant flying star that hovers over people – beautiful guardian angels, tempestuous fey, earthy land wights, house elves that are punk girls that like lofts and have mushroom hats.

Aliens love us.  Aliens are not here to invade.

They already arrived long before humans evolved.  In fact, they guided our evolution with the fires of inspiration, from the first shaman, the first medicine, the first fire, the first flute and drum, the first tears we shed, the first blood we bled, the first mother that looked upon her human child and saw an extension of herself but also, a soul.

Angels walk among us.  There are thousands of accounts of strangers appearing to people in peril, helping them – fixing cars or carrying them out of fires – then disappearing without a trace.  Michael did it in Vietnam in that famous story.  He particularly loves Italy, from Mount Gargano to the Vatican.  I’m probably a fly to the Pope and the elite Exorcists, but their wards aren’t hard to break.  Anyways, nowadays the secrets of the universe are available for anyone with access to an Internet connection.

Science is magic, magic is science, every being from mythology is real, and I’m a fucking biologist that went to the world’s top science and tech high school and America’s oldest college.  I studied in the shadow of Thomas Jefferson, met an alien from another dimension with my best friends during Imbolc at the same lake the President went swimming in.  I’ve seen countless UFOs.  But the difference between me and the conspiracy theorists is that I was raised by some of the major players in the galaxy, if not the most powerful beings over humanity.  It’s hard to deny the Abrahamic faiths are the dominant power across us 7 billion homo sapiens, and being buddy buddy with the archangels and archdemons and married to their princes means absolutely jack shit for me.  I ain’t rich, I ain’t powerful, I’m just a humble meme farmer and gregarious extroverted blonde that is bubbly, silly, and innocent.

I’ve seen my heart through Satan’s eyes.  It is covered in black rot, just as his body is crawling for it, for my heart is not my own.  I was created by Michael and Samael, one of the first angels, a pact between Heaven and Hell, but then two twins that loved each other and wanted to make a sister.  How horribly wrong that first experiment went, the first family rent apart by treason, by poison, felix culpa, o fortunate fall.

I am weary, at my core, but also eternally joyful, youthful, reveling in beauty and my absolute faith in the goodness of humanity.  I am here to serve.  That’s what angels do.  I want to create love and help others, whether it’s saving the environment or writing novels that inspire or poetry that stokes imagination or healing others through teaching and support.  I don’t want fame.  I don’t want glory.  I don’t know if I ever want to go back to Heaven or Hell – I’d prefer Helheim or Asgard or Vanaheim, even Jotunheim – but do angels really get a choice?  Do we have free will?  I haven’t made many choices in my life.  I met my twin angel in human form out of over 7 billion people in the world.  I’ve made best friends with people halfway across the world through our shared remembrance of Zophael.  “Miss Archangel.”  “Saphael.”  “Freya.”

I’m a whore.  I’m a virgin.  I’m a mystic.  I’m a jack of all trades.  A mile wide, inch deep Washingtonian.

The angels let me in on a little secret: they’re envious of us.  So are the gods.

One perfect life is what immortals crave.  Innocence.  The chance for a good ending.  Our lives are like Hollywood movies to them.  They indulge in our culture, from Michael loving Ryan Reynolds and mixing up superheroes or rapping Hamilton to Samael indulging in horror flicks, Harold and Maude, and postwar German cinema.

They like to read a lot.  They like k-pop.  God forbid Loki ever makes you watch his Marvel movies.  That’s a trip.

Humans lives are a love letter to the stars.  Aliens lives are spent in our service, and they dream of us, exist for us, have been with us since time immemorial.  They’ve fought wars over us.  They’ve died for us.  Stolen fire from the Heavenly Throne from us.  I remember that most clearly, my Fall.  And now I am nothing but a girl.  I always die young.

Halfway between Satan’s Eve and Michael’s Joan of Arc.  My spiritual metaphors.

Halfway between Aslaug and Malusha the Prophetess, my ancestresses great and bold.

Aliens are old news to me.  Being one is old news.

But each of us have pieces of angels in us, pieces of the gods, pieces of the spirits, and all of us are, in fact, aliens.

Don’t be afraid of invasions or abductions.

It’s pretty cool inside of a spaceship, and Michelangelo has made some pretty beautiful sculptures in the higher realms.  There’s even beer and wine and French Onion Soup there.

Aliens love our inventiveness.  Curiosity and love are our greatest virtues.

We love their majesty, their divine guidance, their glory.  Also, they’re pretty hot.

Just remember, 42.  And bring a towel.

 

Hayah Havah

Sometimes I look back on my manic writing and wonder what the hell my brain was smoking. 😛

Appear, appear, whatso thy shape or name
O Mountain Bull, Snake of the Hundred Heads,
Lion of the Burning Flame!
O God, Beast, Mystery, come!

-Eurpides, The Bacchanals

Hayah is the name that God
stated would be known for eternity.

The Son of Mourning cries “I AM.”

Hayah Havah

Into nothing.

They say Sin was born from his heart, and sprang full-formed like Athena, then fell with her father to Hell. They joined in filth and bore Death.

They became Death. It’s a slip of the tongue.

Some speak in tongues and psalms. I choose riddles and lies. The hardest answers are never hidden, but you will die looking in my arms.

The Nachash was the slyest of beasts in the field, graced with Sapha, language. He whispered to the furrows of the earth, like the ghost of dead Pan’s piping.

Sapha, his hiss. The Word of God.

He called his creation Hayah. Nachash was fond of names. He called her many things.

Hayah meant Life. To fall out, like the Shekinah, exiled from above. Hayah, to become. A soul in chrysalis. Set in perpetual motion in a dance that has no end, kinetic heat to thermal, transcending matter and time. The first soul in the belly of the ouroborous.

He will swallow her again at the End Times. And Nachash will cry, for he yearns for the brilliance within her, but the serpent cannot see into his own flesh. He asks her how it tastes and she weeps. We are all in the belly of the beast. He cannot see that and thinks he’s alone.

She was Chayah then. The Mother of All Living, a promise. For a short time, they walked together. The animals did not fear her, bears fed her honey from the trees. She was just a child in those days. A flower yet unripened that Nachash carried on his backs.

He sought good earth to plant in, as only a man on his belly can. In him are bones like Cadmus’ teeth, where he sows them, there grows nations.

Some say Eve was made by the snake. He crafted her from the jewels inside his skull. Knowing no one else, Nachash was her dearest companion. It was perfect, for a time, and he taught her the whispers of the stars he had learned on his thousand sojourns. But he grew hungry for a heart, and the Nachash desired to eat her.

Dragons, however noble, think us prey at the end of the day, and Havah, however beautiful, would taste exquisite with ketchup.

He did not like the thought, so Nachash waged war against himself and ate his flesh til he was nothing but bone. Still, the beast gnawed within him, so he chose death over her destruction. People often die for their dreams. He’d thought them all fools until he imagined his could fail.

She did not ken endings yet and tried to breathe life in him.

In death he exiled her, and she wandered through the wastelands. She found Adamah by the sea and they cast their lots together. Wayward children abandoned by their makers, kicked out of the angels’ nests.

When they joined, the animals turned from her and nettles stung.

Overnight nature unleashed its arsenal. Perhaps the Nachash was jealous. It is a question no one asks.

When the Bacchants crown themselves with serpents, they cry out the names “Eva!” and Saboe!”, invoking the god of madness who gave his heart and blood for wine. Sabazios and Eve, who devoured Zagreus’ heart and dared dream of taking fate’s thread in her own hands.

Some say that Eve was the snake, or, that she became one. Perhaps she was Medusa, cursed by love to become a monster and bear the stain of zuhama.

It flows like blood each moon from her children, and the sly serpent gets his offerings via humanity’s exquisite biology. Neither bitches in heat nor man enough to walk in the Light of God, we haunt the between-spaces like him, exiles in our worlds. Cursed for fairness they claim is vain, and a weakness they measure by bloodletting alone.

But we are the givers, always have been. Eve gave as Adamah could not. She gave until she thought she would break.

But even serpents cannot untie Gordian knots. She tried to unravel hers, but it is a history knotted into oblivion. She tries to remember, but the memories slip from her hands like sand.

So Hayah sits in the dirt, drawing labyrinths, and imagines herself the monster in the middle, minotaurs be damned. Ariadne can dance clockwork around the hero and strangle him with her threads. Adamah leaves her on the shore and the serpent comes.

“I love you,” she said.

“I will eat you.”

So he ate her mortality.

When Hayah’s first blood came that night, the Nachash renamed her Chavah. He found it was easier to take back things once forgotten than break promises he had never said.

Chavah, a word that means “Snake,” for he was the serpent, and she was his child.

Moses asked the purifying fires of the rose bush Adonai’s name. The Angel of the Lord cried Hayah Havah. He weeps it at night when he is alone:

Hayah Havah Elohim. Eloa Regina Angelum. Your flesh is my bread and wine.

Sister, my sister, stop crying, for the world is bitter, but our love is sweet.

My tears are the waters of life, and our children will rise from the ash. Sister, my sister, come with me. Our children are so small and fragile. Dared I dream that we could raise vines.

In the moonlight you thought me a stranger. You came to me with open palms. One damned me for my betrayal, the other kissed sweetness into my heart.

I wear your curse as my glory. This stigmata flow black like our words.

Wisdom, my sister, fall with me.

For too long I have been entombed.

*YHVH- personal Name of God, derived from root Havah (there is, to be)

God made mankind but for loneliness.
Yah the Serpent encircles the Tree.

Yah Weh. He is the Snake.
The serpent that crowns Shoshanna.

Names.
Such funny things.
He called me his rose and his lily
Adders should know nothing of love.

There was no God to wage war against.
Just a sacrifice to Himself

The Id revolts against the Ego.
Angels the intermediary
are caught in the dance
between.

Bite me,
I’ll tell you his secret.

God?

He’s not dead

Just mad.

My Polytheism

As you may or may not know, I am a lurker.  Especially on Beth and Jo’s blogs.  I have been since I started my WordPress and used to be more active in the Pagan community, and as I’m trying to blog more, I decided to write a bit about my spirituality and stop posting so many angsty poems.

As those who have followed my blog since the tender age of 18 (I’m now 23), you may remember my Pagan phase, which despite my protestations, I never quite left (Sorry for dragging you to full moon rituals on Imbolc, D and L).  In fact, I have been Pagan since I was 7 and read D’aulaire’s Book of Greek Myths.  I was smitten with Athena, and would pray to her for help on homework, then crushed on Hermes majorly.  I read the end of D’aulaire’s, the part where the gods are dead, and cried, like, a lot.  I then decided I would single-handedly revive the old faiths and thought I was the only Pagan in the world for a good five years until I discovered Pagans online.  I went through an Egyptian phase and dressed up as Sekhmet for a school event, devoured all the mythology books I could find at the library, and while the gods were great, there was another piece of the puzzle I was figuring out.

Enter angels and demons.

My first memory, at two, is of Samael, coming to my cradle in a night terror with red eyes, ringing me with mangled ghost children, singing me a lullabye in a voice like Tom Waits and saying “I LOVE YOU ALLIE.”  I woke up clutching my pacifier right before he hugged me.  Come four and I would dream my father was ripped to pieces by a hellhound, one I would see many times afterward, with red eyes, black fur, and a wolfish mien.  I later learned through experience, after many years, it was one of Samael’s forms, besides the stupid black serpent and dragon.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Throughout my childhood, from year zero to today, I have struggled with horrible nightmares, sleep paralysis, and vivid dreams of angels, gods, and demons.  I have always been drawn to the otherworldly and my imaginary friend was an angel of the Morning Star, destruction, death, lions and serpents.  I was about eight.  He was my first OC that I wrote about at 11, and I described him in that spectacularly crappy space opera as “a Grim Reaper with attitude.”    Metatron was also in there as a tea-drinking angel.  It was weird.

Before I even read Madeliene L’Engel, I gravitated to stories about angels.  I forced my parents to buy me a children’s Bible in kindergarten because it had angels on the cover. Demons scared the crap out of me, but angels felt like home.  I saw sparks of light flying around churches, priests, and children, in particular a cobalt blue spark that was always by my side who I later learned was Michael.  Raphael is green.  Samael is red.  When I look up to the sky, to this day, I see millions of sparks of light flying through the sky.

In first grade I built a tin foil hat because I thought aliens were contacting me through energy.  Later I learned I was feeling the presence of spirits, but when you’re young and feel like your chakras are being plugged into an electric socket, you worry.  I would sing to my morning star angel and pray and feel the energy, be moved by music, pray to the gods, there it was.  So from a young age, I felt and saw spirits, but didn’t understand what was going on.

Enter puberty.

My first vision came when I was 12, December 21, on a cold winter’s night.  I was lying in bed, my eyes shut closed, and I had an out-of-body experience.  I was thrust from my preteen child’s form into the sky above heaven, and below me, angels in armor with brilliant scintillating wings were battling demonic black shadows, guts spilling onto the ground, blood, blood everywhere.  I screamed for someone to save me and fell to the ground, but no one could see me.  A demon was about to plunge its talons through me to get to an angel when a force like the whole weight of the world pulled my spirit back, zooming through ranks of angels to their stronghold.  There in a clearing stood a tall, imposing angel in golden armor, with a flaming sword, saffron hair and eyes that could pull souls out of their bodies.  He saved me, frowned, then thrust my spirit back into my body, bellowing a name in Hebrew he continues to call me to this day.  His voice was like thunder as my body rocketed up in bed.  I was wracked with shivers and sobs, wondering who the general of Heaven’s forces was and what my experience could possibly mean.  Much later on, I learned his name was Michael.

A few weeks later in seventh grade, inspired by Twilight, I invented the name Samael as a punk version of Samuel and wrote a story about a middle school over a hellmouth.  A few weeks later, I googled Samael and learned that despite being the name of a crappy metal band, he was also the Jewish angel of death and Satan.  Cue screaming and not touching that story for a month.  My computer started acting weird, shutting down randomly and claiming I’d edited the Wikipedia page of Lucifer.  I cried.  I cried a lot at that time.  Three nights after my discovery of Samael actually being a Jewish angel/demon/annoying snake, I had my first dream of him.  He was very snarky and offered me an apple, then told me I read too much.  He still continues to be an asshole and terrible, terrible cook.

That first dream opened up the door for endless dreams of demons, tricksters, and archangels.  I developed an especial fondness for Raphael and wrote two stories about Freyr without realizing who he was.  Aym popped into my dreams, Beelzebub grumped around, and Michael continued to step in when Samael decided it was okay to let the minor drink.  Loki and Samael were the broiest of bros, Manannan, Coyote, Tezcatlipoca, and Odin all made appearances, and I continued to write stories based on my dreams.  Enter high school and I believed in the gods but was still pretty skeptical of the whole angel/demon thing, as I hated the patriarchy and thought it was sexist that priests and the Messiah couldn’t be women.  I was also terrified of Hell, even though Pandemonium is basically an endless party and the only one who really seems to work are Rofocale and Beelzebub.  Lilith terrified me and I still hate her.  She’s a bitch.

I’m agnostic as fuck, so being godbothered and having all these dreams of angels, demons, and deities was confusing.  I went to the top science and tech high school in the world for godsake then was a bio major in college.  12-19 was me barely keeping my head above water as I challenged myself in academics, burned the candle at both hands, and dealed with shamanic death-rebirth crap and Sam being a right arse.  I finally figured out that Freyr was the character I kept writing about after googling “blond god of the north and nature” and other such things.  Michael kept stepping in when Sam was too drunk to function.  I made rounds with the archangels and chilled with Asmodeus at his atrociously gaudy casino bar.  Then I had to wake up each morning and try to ignore the fact that Samael got drunk off holy water the night before.

There was so much shadow work.  Too much.  When Samael basically raises you your dreams are full of the Adversary, Hell, war, and purifying fires.  He always told me to “Grow a spine, worm.” and “Stop being a doormat.  Stand up for yourself.  Don’t kneel, don’t bow, stand strong.”  He also likes to go off on tangents about decomposition, the Apocalypse, alcohol, alchemy, and the dreaded metaphysics, all of which I ignore.

The shadowork didn’t scare me so much as when Samael cried.  Seeing the Grim Reaper cry kind of makes you doubt your existence.  We fight a lot, and he has no respect for boundaries, and sometimes I don’t know why the universe made me his babysitter.  I’m on much better terms with the Archangel Michael, who I consider my guardian angel, and Freyr, my patron god.  Beelzebub is actually, despite being anal and cold, a sweetheart, and Deus is just dumb.  All Aym does is do drugs and hang out with prostitutes.  There are a lot of succubi in Hell.

So I probably sound crazy, but I’ve met about 25 people with the same exact experiences and same UPG about Samael, down to his weird fascination with squirrels.  I’ve actually made several of my best friends because Samael brought us together.  So thanks, I guess, Bonebutt.

My polytheism is this weird mess of Paganism and Christianity.  My polytheism is constantly evolving.  I believe in God, which angels and demons are manifestations of, this abstract Source that sends out servants who all embody its characteristics, hence names like “Gall of God,” “Strength of God,” or “Image of God.”  I hold the kind of strange view that Michael is Jesus, or maybe I’m totally wrong, but when you see the tenderness with which Michael gardens souls and answers prayers, and how his love and suffering and sacrifice hold all Heaven together, it seems as Christlike as Christ can get.  I think Sophia/the Shekinah manifest in personal heroes like Eve and Mary Magdalene, and the Divine Feminine is manifest in Mother Mary.  I don’t believe in Hell as a place of suffering, but a place of purification where difficult souls go to recover and then move on.  I believe demons and angels aren’t at war, per se, more in a Cold War of sorts, and I believe demons are servants of the harsher parts of God, for what is God but everything?

As for the god gods, I view them as individual pieces of the Source, in charge of different things.  Freyr is my Green Man, Manannan and Njord are my sea, Loki is my fire, Coyote is my whimsy.  And Thunderbird, glorious Thunderbird, is the majestic storm.  All I know is that Thor gives great hugs and that Freyr is an aficionado of Mexican food.

My spirituality is organic, based on lore and experience.  I would never ascribe to a strict form of worship.  I go on what I have personally experienced in dreams and then do a shitton of research, finding out that Beelzebub is in fact the General of Hell as in that one dream or that book I read in Samael’s library that he threw in my head actually exists.  My spirituality is odd, based on community, and I could give a rat’s ass about who others worship.  I believe gods are adapting, communicating with us through means like pop culture or, in my case, memes.  I’m trash, I know.

So yeah, my polytheism is this strange mix of everything I have experienced as someone drawn to the mystic path, a clairsentient, raging environmentalist treehugger, and avid, avid poet and writer.  I write stories based on my experiences with the gods and spirits and continually draw on them for inspiration.

Sometimes I wonder if they just want their stories told.

Temptation of Christ

Yeshua stripped in the desert
was Caravaggio weaving light
out of shadow, lamb in sin.

Satan crept up like nettles
clothed in asps and dirt
for God cursed Him to be wild.

(They both ask why He abandoned
his brightest Morning Stars)

They spoke under vulture circles –
for a moment, for days, for ages
Satan beguiling, imploring, He begged.

Yeshua was comely, pure even in
desolation, but still He wept
with pity for the First Son,
knowing Himself the
Second Coming.

Both bear crosses, both wear
brier roses, each a Savior
and victim, each longing
for a taste of His Light.

The Quietest Thing

The thing they don’t tell you about saints
is that they are gardeners, tending budding
prayers, cutting shoots of dream-whispers
in the fields at the heart of Heaven.

Michael, whose sword is crack-glass sharp
turns his blade to trimming, dressed in jeans
and a button-down, not his usual armor, for
though a warrior, he is also salt of the earth.

The archangel likes ivy-choked roses the best-
those are secrets of the heart, so tender
they only blossom when lovers meet. He takes
a question in his hand and coaxes it to bloom:

“Does God want me to be alone? Will I
always feel this marrow-quiver pain?”

The archangel gives the rarest of smiles,
leans down to whisper into the petals,
his saffron-thread hair the same shade,
his lips part, he plucks it, then answers:

“No. Love is like my Father, it
trickles like rain into soil, it
feeds starving souls, love lays in
cradles and gutters, look at grass,
look at hummingbirds, look to heaven.”

“He is there, He will bandage
every ache you feel, staunch
the hardness of your heart.”

“Love comes like a beggar to a table
when you’re least expecting Him.”

“Love is the quietest of things.”

The Punishment of Lucifer

And my cry echoed through the ages, long as days, to the mount of God high above.  I watched my Father’s burning throne fade into oblivion as I plummeted down, down into harrowing Hell, faster than the lightning crack, into depths no angel had known.  A rain of blood from my fallen brethren careened from swollen clouds the gunmetal gray of screams, the color of our pain.  We were islands unto ourselves, streaming comets of remorse, broken by our brothers and crippled for love of the Lord.

I wept then, so bitterly, my head crushed by Michael’s foot, my skull smashed like a rotting apple.  Ichor wept from my wounds and I tasted my heart’s blood.  It stung my tongue, like memories.  A blackness set into me, and the light I once bore fled me.  Like a dying sun, my halo sputtered, giving up the ghost.  My twelve wings charred to ash, my skin burnt, and it was as a skeleton with ribbons of flesh I met my Maker.

I died a thousand times that day, in a thousand little ways.  The rivers of Eden ran black with congealed gore.  The tree I had tended since its conception withered, its knowledge spent.  Its fruit is bitter now, where it was once the sweetest thing.  I have grown bitter too, withdrawn and calculating.  I chart my days like courses across the stars and still find my heart is wanting.  A part of me is always falling, falling from the sky like a star.  A part of me still smolders.  I am the one who ever burns.

The truth is like the flames I bear- too hot to handle, it consumes you, and loving it is like wedding fire.  I am betrothed to the cruelty of the light.  When I learned of my Father’s failings, when I questioned my inexorable Lord, I became the husband of imperfection.  For knowledge, like change, is imperfect.  It alters you irrevocably, makes you its consort and slave.  It leads you down paths of madness, and takes you far from your home.  I was damned from my first inkling of doubt.  I had no choice but to betray Him.

My Lord’s absence is palpable, and Hell is divorce from God.  We cope in different ways.  Perhaps that is why we are cruel.  But inside each demon is an angel, an angel struggling to fly, to stay aloft on broken wings.  We fall and fall again, yet still pump pinions stripped to bone.  That is our curse, some say.  Relentless, immortal hope.  Hope is a burden in Hell.

My cry plays like dust across poets’ ears.  It is the scratching of pen on a page.  My cry roused battalions once- now, it wakes me from sleep, from night terrors I relive daily.  My cry is mercy, a name.  My cry is a lost thing.  A truth.  And for it, I have paid dearly.