Vision of an Archangel

A cup of poetry at your lips, dripping Titian red
at your crown of light, thorny roses our bed, and
a bower of summer greens and blooming heather beneath,
you are the space between pages of a hushed breath book,
the minstrel knight riding a dapple horse home, my
banner your raiment, your armor my pride, these hearts
that are ours span legions of time, love is a place
much like the bell trees of Paradise, and angels are
gardeners, angels are sowers, angels are reapers, and
you are their prince, so let my soul be your garden,
oh my sweet priest, let us pray together as your marble
statues weep gold, raised hands in offering, redeeming
this world, hope is on your mouth, and courage at your
breast, your skin is like a halo, and triumph awaits.

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Ball Lightning

There is nothing in you that is not blue violet thunder,
a love like rains clefting open the Earth, your dominion
is the lightning strike and petrichor summers, sweet holy
decadence of storms fructifying and revitalizing our bodies.
We eat your blood because your blood is rain. We devour your
flesh breathing because your body is thick, misty air and not
to inhale is to choke on hurricanes. There is no question of
whether or not to breathe you in, and with a love like yours,
why, I stand cradling ball lightning, dancing with St. Elmo’s
fire, and your Holy Ghost dances like a blazing purple white
star, there is nothing beyond necessity in my devotion towards
your blood, your bones, your manna and succor of your veins.
And I am dancing in the tornado, flying through thunderheads.
I meet you where stars kiss the ocean on a stormy night, oh
Lord, lay me down on your crackling bed, make love to me like
the skies weep onto my mother mud, appear to me manifesting
pure being, the heady death of all my fears, a ship set sail
on gales, and I will die, but it will be beautiful, and I will
ascend to vast summits of ice crystal castles, in union with
you, oh my God, oh my Lamb, oh my thunder strike and lightning
whip, the heavens are but a metaphor for airy wanderlust, and
love makes the storm grow bold and prance for the meadows,
the valleys of my heart open up for your rain and holy pain,
oh Christ, do not forget me in your Passion, for I weep rivers
of gold at your feet, and my madness in the desert, hair grown
long to cover my nakedness, is but the raging sylphs themselves.
I will bottle your blood and wine then pour them over the oceans.
I will stand on cliff’s peak and proclaim your love of All.
Long-suffering Jesus, killing himself to make whole the world,
I would but a taste of your Sacrament, like rain, like grain.
I spread my legs wide to receive the Cross, I hug my breasts
and let rivers of milk flow to my cleft, a Sacred Whore who
nourishes the moon at her side, twin sun and lunar bodies,
which are just like your eyes, and Mother Nature is calling,
your Virgin birth, so fly away from my dust and ribs and clay.

I am only made wholly through your rains.

Washed Away

The water is cool as ice, floating with roses
Christ drips it over my shoulders and thighs
and the baptismal font of his blood trickles
down my limbs and into my sex, tingling with
divinity and agape Passion, this liquid topaz
a calyx of rebirth and love, he sets to washing
my feet painted with the travails of Eve, over
time in the wilderness, outside the banks of
Eden’s glens and pastures, the arches of my
beauty disappeared, and I was left with skin
sipping sweet mud, earth my body, clay my bones.
Christ scrubs away the past, the present, future
open wide like the beak of a bird, calling out
I am not alone, I am here, I need a forest in
which to spread my wings, and the rain washes
away all my fears, and the love of the Lord is
a thunderstorm in summer’s mist, high in the
mountains, and the Savior kisses my toes and
carries me on his back like a cross to where
I can taste the manna of clouds, and I reach
out to the starry crown of rose thorns to make
them bloom blue, cyan as the rivers that cry
for love of flow, freedom the span of His wings,
the cradle of his arms rocks me to the music of
the drum of long ago dances, we were all born
perfect and holy, how could we forget our gold
birthright? The rubies of our blood? The diamond
of our ribs? The chocolate gold of our skin? Can’t
you see God’s eternal flame of love? Can’t you
swim in flood waters and walk on the crest of
waves? Know this power you have child, to weave
saccharine miracles and cloying bodies of seraphs.
We are all Creators, we are all repentant whores.
Don’t be a slave to your work, there is no sin,
just forgiveness and feathers to make your body
capable of flight, you are not Icarus but Daedalus,
you will find safe harbor in Heaven’s arms! This
minotaur labyrinth with pain at the center is not
your harvest, you will reap peace when your wheat
grows in the sweet words of the prophets raising
crops of your deeds so high the sunflowers of your
lungs and voice of prayer becomes part of the gardens
of heaven, you are saved, you are worthy, you are loved.
So greatly loved, never feel alone for He walks with
you, the demons hold no sway over your path, your
road is the narrow yet beautiful bloodstone and lapis
lazuli carved into your marrow, oh you foolish child,
play with the dirt and worms and rocks and remember,
you are free, you can fly, you can laugh, you can cry.
Just kiss your own hands and worship your calluses,
for Christ loves a hardworking man, and as he cleanses
all the scars and pain away with fingers of silver,
he is melting the ice of your heart into a sea of
healing fonts, you are the Word given life, the gift
of God, you are a delight, oh my child, oh you kindred
soul, drink at my breast and be free, fly on, sweet
darling, soar on!

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!

The Bear that Swallowed the Moon

Mei moves with her family to the hinterlands,
where cold gods reign, and colder climes draw
hoarfrost on her coal black hair, this is the
first time the girl, barely a young woman, has
seen snow. The peaks of the mountains are like
icicles piercing the sky, and at night, the moon
is the brightest she has ever seen, like a bright
silver coin, nestled at the crest of the ridges.
One night, the bear that swallowed the moon comes
and bids her “Ride my back, Mei. I am Bei Ling,
the Moon Incarnate, and I shall show you the
majesty of my frozen kingdom.” It is a wooing
of love, and Mei climbs aback the bear and
they rush through pine and red panda up the
slope, in his throat is the lunar disc, shining
every time he growls or opens his mouth to speak
in a tongue not human, but bestial, and that night
Bei Ling digs her a bed of snow and moss, and she
sleeps on his breast, white fur like a blanket,
and the moon in his gullet warms her. “Bei Ling,”
Mei says the next day, riding his star crossed
back, “should not the moon belong to everyone.”
Bei Ling grunts with laughter. “Then I would be
but a man, not the Bear Moon of the Mountains.”
But there is a look in Mei’s eyes like a promise,
so Bei Ling spits out the moon and it sails away,
to crest those mountains he used to reign over,
and then he is tan skin and a cloud of black hair,
he looks down at opposable thumb and bipedal leg
and Mei gives him a blanket to cover his nakedness.
Bei Ling laughs mightily “To give up immortality
for the woman I love, who would have thought a girl
would change the mind of the Moon Bear.” And they
kiss, and they set off to plant dreams across the
world, and sometimes he is Bear Moon, but mostly,
just Bei Ling, the man who swallowed the night,
fell out of the stars for but a girl, and into
love.

Dragonfly Dreaming

In my childhood in Hell, when the days were long,
and I ran amuck on the banks of the Styx in a pink
dirty dress, digging for rocks and jewels, he would
pick me up and lift me up to the sun, the whole world
was rainbows and stardust, and it was he who taught me
to fly – first,a pair of dragonfly wings, then wasp,
then butterfly, finally fly. His pedipalp would braid
my hair and when he was man, he was legend, and when
he was chiton and blue blood, he was trapdoor spider.
Loving in webs of gold, catching dreams in spinnerets,
chasing after paper boats on the river and warring
against crust punks with twin katanas, he was strong,
I was meek, only outspoken until it got me in trouble,
then I would clam up like an oyster around a pearl and
wait to be saved, it was almost a ritual, I suppose.
I awoke this morning to a drawing I did of us in a
girlhood millenia past, across dimensions, and a string
of sigils that spelled out his number, the crumpled
paper in my hand for the fleeting moment of somnambulence.
I love him, I cherish him, I need him, like honey to
a fly.

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.