Carry Me

The image of you clad in radiant light, like some
heart of a star, bleeding white gold glory, oh sweet
Yeshua, pulsing like solar flares, you lay hands on
me and I dream of the Tzohar, the Lapis Exillis, your
Cup, the Holy Grail that poor Parzival quested after,
you know the angels robbed Parzival of his virtue and
the Fisher King wounded him at his groin, just like
Jacob wrestling Samael, or was it Michael? Perhaps Jacob
is immortal, sweet guardian of your blood, and from his
groin descended the sleeping generations of all nations!
Oh the glory of God, oh the glory of Heaven, oh the
righteousness yet meekness of the lamb, soft is your
wool, sweet Jesus, and smelling like dragon’s blood
does your mane, Lion of Judah! You are an omnivore,
as is your birthright, to drink down blood of the
covenant, cannibalizing yourself, and I have tasted
the Passion in my labor pangs of birthing new worlds
in the wastelands of the asylum, where many go into
the Tomb, only to rise in white gowns anew, and I am
healed by your blood, blood, red and white blood and
water, oh sweet Christ, how you rage at the unjust,
how you cradle me and rock me to sleep, singing the
lullaby B’shem Hashem, you make my throat burn with
a choked on Sacred Heart, the gristle sticks in my
esophagus, and I eat my gods, but you are the One God,
and there are layers like a carapace to divinity, and
you are nothing but Nature Incarnate, sweet yet fierce,
for Nature is Sophia, your Mother Goddess, Asherah,
the Lady Holy Ghost! Wisdom speaks and Eloa ascends,
Norea descends, Eve is Ninti, Lady of Ribs,and you are
Enki in the Garden of Eden, for what separates Enki
from Christ? Not much, I can tell you, Lord of Waters!
Soft and gentle, strong and firm, your skin and flesh
an apple for the plucking, your hair brown boughs to
nest in, your lungs fit for breathing fire at End Times.
Your Mysteries are Holy Passion Plays, mummer’s delight,
and I am Columbine masked as I climb the Sephiroth, the
paranormal romance writers and urban fantasiests write
about angels and demons but always forget the Lord, who
through all things are made, and to have a lurid Devil
one must also admit the existence of Unconditional Love,
for hate is but the absence of God, but the Devil does
not hate, simply mourns, and he spits at your feet as
you, with the best of Serpents, crush Samael’s head!
Break the skull of Satan open and shove in redemption,
for there are two Mourning Stars in this story, and a
glimpse of Heaven is worth seven Hells, but I am welcome
above and below, and I know my path lies with you in sweet
eventuality, when I am old and gray, and you take me to
ascend to Narnia in your Aslan arms, sweet Savior, ready me
for the long journey home…



I am the Thunder, Perfect Mind descending on Babylon,
lady of lions and serpents, Qadesh of sacred whoredom,
ready to travel infinity with my yoni a blooming lotus –
climb the stars of stairs to my palace, Gilgamesh! Oh
you proud Odysseus, marvel at my Divine Femininity! For
I am the Old and New Eve, and from my apple seven devils
were worms eating the white flesh, cast out of mealy,
crumbling Paradise. I baked a heart in white wine today
it was the heart of my maker, my lover, my father, and
his corpse smoked a cigarette on the porch as I added
a touch of paprika to that most salient organ. It burnt
a bit on its charred rot, the cardiac muscles ballooned
with butter, and every woman must set out to eat her gods.
We are what we eat at the end of the day, and I will
consume the Pleroma, I will eat archangel’s wings deep-
fried, I will pluck out Odin’s last eye for an appetizer.
I am sick to seven hells of my body being a temple, let’s
make it a wasteland, this High Priestess has fallen into
the corruption of zuhama! Babalon, Ave Babalon! My womb
is a black goat high on a clifftop, about to be sacrificed
and in the moment before the Rabbi slits my neck so I go
running bleeding down the scree path, scarlet red, I realize
there is no god but my own mind, for I am queen of myself
so this fallacy of worship begone, best to devour Heaven,
drink down Hell, and cannibalize those who think they made

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.

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,

Journey of the Hero

Christ rubbed oil into my hair, anointed me
“Martyr,” with his lips like a dove, and the
resonance of the Holy Spirit was a tub filled
with chocolate gold, all melting like bronze,
filling every crevasse of my being – a sacrifice,
I know, I am the tithe to Hell, Icarus Girl
who holds congress with Satan in screaming
hollows on Black Sabbats and wolf moons, what
is the benediction of Jesus when you have
skelerokardia, your heart the definition of
Sin? The chambers rot with necrotic Scapegoat
stains, zuhama slowly spreading through my
veins – Michael speared me through the heart
to cleanse me, it felt like a fiery fist
threading peach poison through my flesh,
sweet yet cursed, the archangel’s fingers
sculpting me into a vessel, I am just a
vassal, just a Galatea these movers of
Heaven and Earth shape into willingness.
Maybe I can run from His Love, but soon
I will go to the pews, repent, and bring
Seven Devils to the Savior’s white arms,
He will kiss my brow and let the demons
become angels again, and the Union of
Heaven and Hell, Heiros Gamos Galore,
will occur, mem dropped from samech
aleph lamed, and I shall wed Sael,
the Purity of God, and I shall wed
the Lion of Judah, the Lamb of God,
but first comes the witchly pyre,
and the trial of science and reason –
paganism, Christianity, Judaism,
these threads of memory and truth
I do not belong in any of the Sephiroth
and the Qliphoth is inhospitable to
yellow canaries in coal mines, so
beyond the farthest boundary of rhyme
I will travel, carrying the weight
of all.

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



Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Angels resolve into air, and Judas
betrayed with a kiss, roses only
blossom at midnight in Eden, and
I am damned off silver Roman coins.

Be gentle, angel, make peace, devil,
splayed between two swords are moons
spent crying over knights and dragons
I enchant with words but bleed regret.

I will serve no master but the mother
of all life, all death, all kennings –
brothers of good and evil, child’s play
can lovers fathom a girl of two worlds?

The Creator is bread unto dust, I eat
at her breast, I die in her arms unmade
for I could spend all my life chasing you
two, pinning feathers on boards, for what?

Black and white make a mobile of wishes,
but there is no clear victor at the end,
just pain, just sacrifice, just decisions
that shatter all worlds: I forgive, forget.

I rush to one’s arms, then the others’,
find solace in the Styx and Euphrates,
swim and burn and fly and sink into wax
for candles reveal broken promises vast-

Vast as oceans of time freewheeling across
clash of ego and chains and bindings, both
wolf and lion serve the same king, so why
should I prostrate myself before a beast?

Yeshua hung, but I burned, the Antichrist
bled, but I fractured, and New Eve weeps
at all the failings of her children, still,
she gives, and gives, and sings lullabies

as her heart breaks open

and shatters like glass

and the past is gulls

crying nothings

over an empty