God Help the Outcasts

Hemlock drips with rain by the alabaster chapel,
those of us who linger rub the feet of marble
Christ, lighting candles for desperate prayers,
touching where the wound of betrayal sank nails
into toes, the sky is weeping with outcasts,
God turning a blind eye on this cloudy gray day.

Satan is in the pews, praying. He does not often
kneel to pray, but here he is, wings draped like
a mourning veil, there are black tears in his
red eyes, and he is wretched in misery at the
foot of the Virgin Mary, penitent or perhaps
something more – something like lemon rinds
on a thirsty tongue, his lips pucker, silence.

I am dressed in a pink flowing dress, I carry
roses to the foot of the baptismal font, Satan
watches me like a hawk eyeing a rabbit, hungry.
I walk the aisle and carry oil to anoint Christ’s
Immaculate Heart, the stained glass casts blue
redemption onto the wretched one, we are alone.

He speaks of broken promises, of falling from
pride, and crash landing in a place devoid of
love, just threads of comfort like torn flesh.
Satan embraces me, and he sobs into my arms,
and in the chapel glow, I can almost imagine
him crowned in the Morning Star, whole once


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.


And what passes between Yeshua and Satan is but
a glance of lost paradise, ragged deserts where
the dead shamble on towards the heavenly throne,
the Holy Spirit a sun beating down on Christ’s
skin, yet it does not burn him, but for Satan,
the touch of searing divine love is a taste of
forbidden fruit, and so he sticks to the shadow
of a saguaro (there are no cacti in Jerusalem,
but in Satan’s mind, there are thorns aplenty.)

When Christ lifts water to immolated Satan’s brow,
the Devil is too far gone in remorse to stop him.

And Yeshua washes Samael’s sins, and two Scapegoats
clasp hands in an arm wrestle over souls, harrows
of hell and the narrow path to heaven, there are
road signs on a crisis of faith, and two princes
offer both crowns of razor wire and of rose thorns.

What cross you bear may be sinful, but honey, hold
my wrist, let me guide you on to the blinding light.

We were meant to burn.

Mary and Mary on the Rocks

The Virgin is cloaked in azure blue and the white of clouds,
her Son’s Whore in the red of the Scarlet Woman, gold cloak.
They sew the disciples’ robes by the fireside late at evening,
where the Jewish star man Kesil rotates in the heavenly spheres.
The Magdalene asks Mother Mary, why did your Son redeem me? For
I was lost and cast aside, why was he born in a manger, to the
flicker of lamb’s ears and music of mantises? Why did God come
in the flesh of such a soft man, my Rabboni and companion, who
preaches parables on mounts and at temples, curses fig trees
that refuse to bear fruit? His ways are strange, Mother Mary.

The Virgin smiles and helps fix a seam on the Magdalene’s piece.
The girl of Magdal Eder has never been much of one for sewing.
Because, my daughter, the meekest among us are made mighty
through my precocious Son, and what is in Him, His love for
you, is but of God, and what I bore in my untouched womb was
a promise – for the dead to dance after Resurrection and the
quietly waiting saints in Gehenna to ascend to Abraham’s bosom.

Have faith, my child, that he loves you so, and you are
ever worthy.

Mercy of Marian

I am cloaked in the red of the Scarlet Woman,
cymbals like Naamah in my hand, your apostle
of apostles, and the seven demons crawl under
my skin. Oh mercy of Maria, you pray, as I
move my hips like rain on glass, sinuously
curving in your starlight arms, you are my
rose garden, O Savior, most holy of holies,
and at night we both cry out in despair, you
for desolation and the nonbelievers, me for
the madness you must exorcise from my heart.
Perhaps we may find love in one another,
clutching like lovers the pearl of great
price between our wounded brows, but under
the light of evening, we laugh and hosanna
in the Mount of Olives, the firelight an
elegy in your dusty eyes, worn yet homely,
like an alabaster jar left too long in temple.
The caravan the disciples and women travel
in is carried by a stubborn ass, he kicks
up dust as you blow your shofar to declare
your Messianic arrival at yet another lost
town, but you are not a destroying angel, and
you would have clutched Sodomites to your
bleeding breast and fed them your ichor like
you transfigured your flesh to wine on my
tongue, o sweet Christ, be my wings of
albatross, and I will be your mate for life.

I am the woman of seven devils, just a whore.
But in me, you see so much


“At that time Michael, the great prince who protects your people, will arise. There will be a time of distress such as has not happened from the beginning of nations until then. But at that time your people–everyone whose name is found written in the book–will be delivered.

You were anointed with a crown of thorns on crimson hair,
perhaps from your rose garden of prayers, briars I pierced
my fingers on to press my blood to your lips and claim you
as my knight, but that was some far away fantasy of swords,
spells, devilish sorcerers, and enchanted witch queens, I
rode your shoulders into war, we picked blackberries wild
and ate sparrow eggs harvested in brambles along with sweet
roots and tubers like butter, a fall harvest for evening.
You will lead my armies into war, o great Michael, and
as you carried your cross in the desert to that high,
desolate hill, immaterial made flesh, infinity mortalized,
I followed you to the Crucifixion and wept long with hair
that had graced your feet with my sorrow, was I choosing
you with spikenard oil to be forsaken? You cried to Father,
Eloi eloi, lama sabachthani? and the answer was pure
silence, and to truly die and descend to Hell to free Abraham’s
bosom chosen was temptation of the highest order, for I was
destined for Hell – the Magdalene is the woman of seven devils,
and repent as I might, I was still damned with a bloody egg,
my miracle of Easter iconography and hairy torso and limbs
grown in the wastes to cover my shame as I ran wild like
Lilith for three days, mourning you – I crawled back from
the brink with as much blood and tears in my eyes as spurted
from your wound, my womb was swollen with perdition, my body
bruised and battered from the Seirim, Shedim, and Lilitu,
you saw me ragged in the Garden of Gethsemane at your
resurrection, and sweet Mother Mary had thankfully washed
my brow beforehand and given me one of her clean robes,
when the Virgin, Mary of Bethany, and I spiritwalked to
your tomb, there was a whisper of a voice that could make
angels fall, Yeshua. I would have given anything, my very
blackened heart to Satan’s clutches, to see you freed, but
no matter, you were always your own Savior, and Messiahs
have no need for broken women, but you loved me anyways,
despite all my sins, and as you carry me on your starlit
breast up to the outer reaches of Heaven, and we are back
in that dream of princesses and Paradise, you feed me manna,
lay hands on me with the fire of the Holy Spirit, and you
shift between olive skin, hazel eyes, and charcoal hair
to fiery radiance of the archangel, just for a moment, and
I cannot find the truth of you entwined in the allegory,
Michael, Christ, Yeshua, these are all factions of my soul,
and it may be heresy, but I have always been a heretic,
cast out by the Council of Nicea to be just a lost whore.

Only you see me as Qadesh, sacred and bleeding heart, and
are the Resheph to my lost goddess, we are bringers of love
and war, so dance with me, my holy vengeance, and let us raze
all my doubts to the ground, sow mustard seeds, and blossom!

Damascus Road

I was a Saul, no angel heard what I said in my brier bed below,
in the depths, in the pits, I made my coffin in Satan’s heart,
and come Hell or high water, temptations and the tarnish of time,
I did not believe, for how can the blind see and dumb speak? I was
deaf to revelations, the gospels were like sand, and only when the
blade of the spear pierced me, and out gushed spring water, and my
brow was painted with a double tailed fish, open DNA helix of Christ,
did I wear the circlet of thorns, stare at the broken crown, and the
Damascus Road spread out like the harrows of Sheol, and Gehenna spat
me up into the lap of God, and there I nursed on His heart’s waters,
and my bloody wings turned pink, then white, and everything washed
away in the hemoglobin of the covenant, iron is in nails and His veins,
what was once manifold and untouchable, made flesh, and now my heart
is attacking my throat, and the mist of tears and joys and agape worship
bring me breathless to my knees, and Saul becomes Paul, and Whore of
Babylon becomes the New Eve, your face turned upwards resplendent to
your Father as you wasted in your travails on the cross haunts my every
waking widowed hour, Yeshua, what more could I give? What looses my
chains and frees me from Satan’s clutches? I do not even want to be
free, and fool that I am, I plunge off cliffs into the ocean like flocks
of the possessed, the barren wilderness is more home to me than the
Heavenly Palace, golden throne, and river of beryl and rubies! Have
mercy on my penitent soul, I am losing every doubt, and the terror of
knowing Your love is like birthing the moon, loving the sun, and becoming
a star, here I stand at a crossroads, between the narrow and wide, between
the right and the easy, yet, I choose to hack through the wilderness with
my scythe, clearing a new path, one never trod before, the middle pillar,
for I am the High Priestess, and she rules between the black and the white.

I never knew a love like yours, and when you manifest, I lose all senses
as I am swallowed up into your Immaculate Heart, what is the price of a
sparrow? It is the mustard seed, smallest of grains, and from it grows