The tide rises, the terminal swells, my mystery man
is 0s and 1s of binary delight, we are experiments,
chained to the xylophone, beep beep motherboard, clock
strikes nuclear ground zero and blows away all hope,
automaton candy, I am angel winged mutant, flying though
subterranean motherships to prove, all wicked delights
are fantasies, and all fantasies are real, you say we
are science fiction, but biology is mutable, and legends
are grown in Petri dishes, bionic wombs made me woman.
I am cyborg eternal, I seek the computer ghost, slither
with armored tail to the gunslinging cyberpunks, hiss
out Javascript and carve out a place for the Legion,
all demons are digital, all angels fast as light, and
when I phoenix roost and lay eggs of gold, know my
body is a simulation, and I am in the matrix of dreams.


Eve’s Carapace

And they were glorious in their nakedness, Adamah and Chavah
Chavah knew all paradise was hers to tender, to plant and sow,
to pluck ripe fruits of fragrant juices and cut teeth on tubers
the marvels of Eden were endless flower fields, white harts and
golden hinds, but there was one tree that beckoned, it was the
Tree of Life, or was it the Tree of Death? Chavah and her angels
could read, you know, for the tongues of angels is but old Hebrew,
and in scripture it is said we are all queens of our own dominion.
Though wild and wonderful, Chavah was the mother of all languages,
from the paths of stars to the flight of birds and course of brooks.
When it was raining one night in that heavenly accolade, in a valley
where sunflowers towered above and heather and lilacs and lavender
tangled at her feet like maiden’s hair, purple locks of splendor.
The sky was swollen with thunderclouds, and Eve bid her companion
angels to go clear the skies, but as she sought shelter, she came
to an old wickedly bent oak, and on it was a man most crucified,
with the Shroud of Turin anointed, speared by thorns, half-grown
into the bark of the forbidden tree. That tempting, forbidden
vine that draped in grapes and apples and pomegranates, the man’s
corporeal form shone as if he was God, for Eve walked with God
often, yet this man was half-dead and all holy, quite mortal in
his pain, and Eve had never known pain. Perhaps Christ was
practicing his passion, no matter, he spoke to the Lady of Ribs:
“Wear me as your shroud, as your carapace, for you are bare and
cold, and bask in my glory, for this is my promise to you, Chavah:
in you lays my covenant, and in your womb are the generations of
Abraham, so I will graft you to my garments of Pentecost fire, and
when you are cast out, don me as your cloak in the wilderness, and
you will not suffer, and I will provide for thee.” And then in a
thunderclap and spill of lightning, the crucified Christ was no
more, and ever-curious Eve was left staring at a white cloak of
wonders, blood stains now transformed into burning raiment white,
and Eve gathered the gown around her nakedness, and she buried it
at the gates of Eden, for she knew her childhood could not last
forever, as her dear serpent often spoke of, and the man with
nails in his hands and palms seemed the kind of mystery Eve fancied,
a solemn resurrection and being of pure infinity, so when God
decreed that Adam and Eve had eaten of the Tree of Knowledge, it
was with Jesus’s Presence that Eve grew a carapace like a beetle,
and it kept her ever virginal and clean, and it aided her in her
travails, wicking away sweat as she dug and ploughed, midwifing
Abel, Cain, Seth and their oft forgotten sisters into the new world.
The way Jesus works is a mystery, but I know long ago he came to
Grandmother Eve, and he has walked with prophetesses and common
woman since, and the Son is sweet on the fallen and seekers of
wisdom, gatherers of boquets and girlhood ended too swiftly, so
bear witness to Eve’s carapace, hidden in the Cave of Miracles,
and know she was the first to taste that Eucharistic Passion.
Amen, Amen, Amen.

Dragon’s Blooms

Amongst the sage and heather, I fly in open skies
my soul is a spirit dancer, suspended from on high!
Oh wind! Oh wake of dragons! Take me to the mountain!
Where in the hot springs dally wyverns in the fountain.
Dragon’s nest in onsens, dragon’s nest in hot delight,
and they are jewel-toned wonders, a most peculiar sight.
Scales burnished rose and emerald, wings the span of planes,
they breathe a fiery furnace, and my spirit is enflamed.
I am the dragon’s keeper, amongst the dragon’s blooms.
These fields are rolling lavender, we play along the tune
of mating calls of madrigals, high lindworms and serpents
gold, winged elegies to the wake of God, angels usurpant.
I think the greatest thing of all is a dragon, and you
would say the same, if you could dance in fire, so true
to the core of the Earth, molten nickel and magma, churning
gullets volcanoes, and as we fly stupendous, I am learning:
dragons used to live here, dragons used to fly, high above
Earth’s mountains, spirits in the sky, knights slayed many
mothers, kings crushed their bones to clay, so a penny
is worth more than a dragon now, in man’s imagination,
we do not remember the dragons, greatest of God’s creation.
But if you visit a mooonbeam and hitch a ride on Milky Ways
you can still live amongst the dragons, as their memory decays.
Honor children who speak to dragons, they adore a child,
dragons will raise the children to be beautiful and wild.
Let’s invite the dragons back! To parks and mountains high
there’s still room on Earth for dragons, room left in the sky.
When dragons left, miracles, and unicorns followed their flames.
But with their return, a veil of magic, majesty their claim.
Believe in dragons, sister. Brother, be their keeper, dragons
are the cosmos awakened, real as angels and God, let them in.

Musings on Dust

Dust settles over me like a fine wine barrelled
in aged oak, I look up from the dregs and fungus
and see your coral snake eyes, red iris rings
belying the poison of your soul, oh, to make
you whole would be to take all that is good
in this world and feed it into your fiery
gullet, grind down all matter into the finest
china dust, dust, we are stardust, moondust,
dirtdust, earthdust, raindust, clouddust,
my bones are dust, my eyes are dust, and
you are a vacuum (vacuum of space) ready
to suck up all my fine particulate matter
and sieve out the gold flecks in my alma.
Oh, to be more than just clay, more than
just some foolish man’s rib! Eden is dust.
Eve is dust. Adam is dust. And when I die,
I will be dust, only my bones left, soon
to be milled down and ground at the wheel,
breaking marrow and collagen, white dust.
It is the dance of rats and flies, plague
of mortality, leaves falling to turn to
loam. It is autumn in your kingdom, and
when thirsty lips meet, I taste ash in
your mouth, a thimbulful of aconite, a
twitch of nightshade flower and berries
on the vine, wine, purple venom, for I
am the dust of cocaine, a powder, powder!
Oh, why have I not thought on the virtues
of powder! It is the chemistry and alchemy
of all good things, burnt in crucibles as
heady white miasma, smelling of dust,
powder is finer than dust, and I imagine
my soul is also powder, close to power.
What are we like, Grim Reaper? Ashes,
dust, powder, dregs, dirt, finely ground
down flour. Flour upon the hour, reason
upon the season, and flowers to bloom
into nothingness. Baking is making
Creation into lemon meringue, cupcakes,
and it all starts with flour! White
dainty wedding powder, grains of rice,
bakers and brewers yeast, those finer
things of life, do they mean fine as in
very small, finely grained, finely sieved?
For I can hold the world as dust in my
palms, they say you can see God in a
handful of wet mud, dirt is holy, holy.
Dust, dirt, powder, flour, yeast, ash.
Life was microscopic at the beginning,
seeded by comets as microbes fell into
nitrogen seas, and water was precious,
and the rivers were boiling, and old
primordial Earth resembled Hell, but
God stirred the soupy mess and He
impregnated Gaia with inspiration,
and She birthed dust and tiny flecks
of life, viruses, eukaryotes, archaea,
fungi, prokaryotes, animalia, plants.
Oh, the dance of the danse macabre.
Sand! How could I forget sand? Dried
up oceans revealing crushed shells
and corals, calcium carbonate cliffs
of Dover, Chesapectin jeffersonius in
my home state, fields of Arabia where
all there is is sand. Sand is what the
djinn cast their illusions with, don’t
you know sand is fire in earthly form?
Play at the beach, watery footprints.
Climb the dunes on a camel, pyramids
of an ancient concrete. Sand, dust,
flecks, flour, yeast, ash, clay, dirt.
We are just 80% water and 20% dreamdust.
Stardust fills my alveoli, my marrow
is sundust, burning gold, and electricity
knits the whole humus together, so walk,
rejoice, for you know what you are made
of now, and when you sweep, you are
playing God and Gaia, and when you
dust, you are also dust, dust, dust,

Heaven a Hell of Its Own

It is Paradise for the Chosen Few, with verdant
terraces of wildwoods that stretch on forever,
board games to staunch the boredom of Heaven,
how many times can you play Risk and Parcheesi
until Lilith runs out of the stable lusting
after freedom, for the punishment of Belial,
Lucifuge Rofocale, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and
Samael are to be guardians over the good, to
pretend to be better angels and chaperone the
contentment and lazy summer days of New
Jerusalem, bottle all your ids down, tamper
the urges of lust and cannibalism and fucking
good and hard in a shattered medical ward.
For in truth, the Saved and Chosen by Christ
have been put here to torment the archdemons:
provide on hands and feet kneeling every whim
for those Saint Peter admitted with gold-drip
arms to the Seventh Heaven, near the seat of
God, where Metatron scribes the Sefer Ha Chaim.
I am one of those that taste salvation, and in
this bucolic, idyllic countryside palace where
the archdemons would rather drink themselves to
death than spend another minute playing Parcheesi
with better than thou, long-suffering disciples,
turn the other cheek crew that is so much more
enlightened than the demons of vices, who despise
virtue, which is what the Blessed are, I run wild
through the woods that are ever-changing, with
diamond fruit and jewel leaves, fly stupendous
in the clouds with the archangels while my demons
are confined to babysitting the faithful, they
are slowly going mad playing Monopoly in the Good
Place, where everything to them is boring and
nothing bad ever happens, all is sunshine and
ice cream stops on a choo choo train and rainbows
after beautiful storms that grow the verdant flowers
of Heaven. For Heaven is torture for my demons,
they are growing mad, counting ceiling tiles,
peeling away at the 80’s carpet in the guest
room, passed out monotonously catatonic as the
peacefulness and perfection tease and tempt them
to defile this perfect place. Samael talks to
Asmodeus in hushed tones: if I have to play
another round of Life I will gut these holy
neerdowells, Belial moans and wishes for his
guitar, for rock music is too loud for the
blessed dead, Beelzebub spins a toy top over
and over again, steely look on his face, I
realize my demons have been put in what is
essentially time out in Heaven, and taking
pity on them, I utter the ineffable name of
God and break the curse laid upon them, give
them back their wings, the demons hightail it
out of mundane, beautiful Paradise and soon
we reach Hell, I along for the ride for shits
and giggles, happy to have freed the demons
of my inner menagerie to their sins and
supplications, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Samael
and I enter a medical laboratory with shatter
glass and mercury and blood and dead rats,
it is a wrecked dungeon of mad experiments,
and they take me there on the stainless steel
counter top next to a chemistry set, every
orifice pounded raw as they draw lacerations
with fangs and claws, and I laugh in delight
at the wild unleashing of desire and bloodlust,
filling with the seed of the Satans, for in
Heaven, they were not allowed to lay hands
on women or men, and now all that pent up
rage is turgid inside me, the whips and knives
emerge, the wings lift me up off the medical
supplies and when they are spent, my consorts
cradle my bruised and battered and satiated
qadesh body in their boiling arms, and I make
my nest with the Damned archdemons, and I pity
any demon stuck in a Millenial hell of board
games, endless soft serve, perfect summer days,
vacation for the residents of Heaven, and
sheer torture of perfection for those of us
who require a bit of marrow in our coffee,
bite in our whiskey, and blood in our cups.

Eisheth Zenunim

O Woman of Whoredom! You wrap me into earthen arms
the color of mahogany and loam, smell like jasmine
in your fineries, qodeshah, curved and plump off the
souls of the damned. You wear black silk and a train
of starlight, your curls catch grayscale rainbows,
and it is midnight in Hell as you tower over me,
pressing me to your ample breast, we kiss and feast
on each other’s flesh, mouths burning and branding
one Eve to one Eisheth. In my dream, I lay hands,
hold venomous snakes in the temple and am not bitten,
leeches suck my blood but I am unharmed, traitors
roam the halls but I am true to you, o Mother of
Darkness, Wife of Satan, Consort of Samael, Hail!
You were the first succubus, strangling men with
heady perfume of rose oil and supple midnight skin.
Eldest of the Four Queens, yet protectress of Hell.
It is you who are the bluebird, singing mournfully.
It is you who are the blood nymph, dancing playfully.
It is you who are the doll of mercy, crying wildly.
Oh, Eisheth, plait your hair my older sister, dance
with me our sorrows away, it is so dark no one can
see what we get up to, we can raise Cain on a Friday
night, make love to the trill of the nightingale,
a farthing for your heart, and I am all enchanted,
drawn to your arms like animal magnetism, Hail, Hail!

Nuclear Winter

Nuclear winter and I can’t see through the shrapnel and falling snow.  It is bone cold, the kind of biting frost that settles into marrow and makes it icy slush.

I met Cain at the crossroads.  His body was scarred with the Mark of a God that would rather see him cast out into the Land of Nod and forever a wanderer.  He was dressed in  a black hooded robe with a red belt and barefoot, bruised feet.  His skin was like a lamb, so soft against the hardness in this son of Samael’s eyes, and his eyes are blue like a promise of New Jerusalem after the Apocalypse, only this is a fallen world, and Earth is Hell, and a President’s hasty finger on the trigger button bombed us into the oblivion.  The spirits crawled out of the ruins, oh Josiah, oh Jerusalem, oh Joshua and Jericho.  Angels fly above in tangles of lusty wings and limbs, demons crippled by such great heights shamble about in the snowbanks, my neighborhood is infested with Legion and Legend.  Legend – angels.  Legion – demons.

Cain parts the waters on my cul de sac of infestations of infernal and divine.  The gods are like cockroaches eating away at the rot of humanity.  Every pantheon is here to make humankind their chessboard, we are weak enough to be pawns now, apotheosis be damned.  Cain is the first cursed, but no one can harm him, so he is immaculate in his damnation.  Me however – the bullets graze and bruise my skin, the fangs rend flesh, I am battered and bruised from my fall from Paradise and journey to my lover’s arms.

The Witchfather beckons from a crab apple tree I used to dream under, its insides rotten, and the Dragon King emerges, black caul and shadow body, red eyes and lips like knives.  I cannot stand anymore, half my limbs are bent and broken, and I collapse in the Devil’s arms.  Samael wraps me up in night and with his twisted son we fly, so far away, on raven pinions, to some place far from the vices of humanity and global warfare, away from the end of the world.   Have people been raptured?  It’s hard to tell with all the casualties and dead bodies lying on the streets as I fly so high above.  Everyone – the gods, the angels, the demons, human slaves – look like ants.

We are just flecks of gold to the divine, but we are precious, worth Russian Roulette and bets over cocktails in rotting bars.  My planet is sacrificed to the Fenris Wolf.  Hati and Skoll will eat the Sun and Moon.  We are Behemoth gorging himself on corpses.  We are Legion now.

We are an inverted Tetragramatton, and I am too far gone to cry for all the broken names of Yeshua.  Jesus descended into Hell for three days, but really, it was 40 years.

Our Earth is ragged.  Our Earth is cursed.

And my God is a jealous God.