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.


I Came Out of the Woods By Choice

Driving down the highway to renew my Planet Fitness membership,
I was confronted by the whiplash of memories – there towering in
the distance was the castle of my captivity, Dominion Psychiatric,
where I was institutionalized by my will after setting fire to my
room, delusional and paranoid and hallucinating, casting spells with
trash, throwing all my belongings out the window to return them to
nature, I would have jumped if my mom hadn’t pulled me back from the
windowsill screaming, then I cycled through my personalities and became
Puck, speaking in rhyming Iambic pentameter, holding court for Oberon
as I was packed into an ambulance and buzzed away on tides of psychosis.
Committed to the psych ward, I was not allowed shoelaces, for I could
strangle myself on them, so all of us depressed and deluded chainsmoking
masses shuffled around in oversized hospital socks. Group therapy ensued,
I forged friendships with kindred souls, pagan wild and Arabian and Eastern
Orthodox and Buddhist monk trained by Japanese masters to paint cherry
blossom trees alike. Sometimes the madness (there was always madness
in a mental ward) would grip a 6’5 built like a brick man and he would try
to snap my neck, and the hospital staff would call security and we would
be on lockdown as the ape of a violent manic tried to kill us, the lumbering
security guards would taser this victim of a cruel mind and wrestle him to
the ground and into a straitjacket, I was not myself, I thought my parents
demons from Hell and the nurses angels, check under your tongue to see if
you swallowed the pills, they had been pumping me full of poisonous meds to
my disorder for a month, I hallucinated as a waitstaff at a wedding, I almost
electrocuted myself playing with wires, trying to send messages to God by
a volt box, in the asylum, I had to learn how to human again, I stayed in there
over a month, my parents would bring me Subway sandwiches and I would rail
incoherently about my delusions and the voices and demons I saw. At night,
I dreamt of a valley of blood and flesh, and I climbed the spine of a hellish
giant and went into a castle of putrid pinions of rotting necrosis, I swam in
maggots, I was rotting away, my brain on fire. My brain is always on fire.
The diagnosis came in two days from my saint of a psychiatrist who is the reason
I am still alive today: bipolar type 1 with psychotic tendencies, anxiety, OCD.
Unlike most patients that resist, I accepted this, for I was still high off my
own brain, speaking in tongues, swimming through the dark night of the soul.
Every day since has been a clawing back to sanity, sanity I have never known.
When you run insane through life for nineteen years only to crash into the pit
there is no return to innocence, not that my diseases ever left me an innocent.
Wash it away in blood and wine, wash it away in standing back from the subway
train so you don’t jump, hide all the razors, lock the knife drawers, bite down
to guard your tongue from gnashing teeth, have the urge to cut off your toes
and gouge out your eyes, you’re afraid of pencils now, sometimes you think of
biting into the flesh of eyeballs and eating someone, other times there is this
profane, unholy voice in your head of intrusive thoughts, committing and saying
unspeakable atrocities, fuck, I should be able to renew a fucking Planet Fitness
membership without being subject to these recollections, there is so much pain
in this world, in my soul, and I am weary, and I am battered and a wreckage of
what I once was, what I never was, that golden idol of a girl. That witch who
would drag men to the woods to devour them and divine with their entrails. There
is no escape from memory, that beast of time and sensation, but we are nothing
without our histories, and mine is tarred and feather, set alight and pushed off
a cliff, the fool plunging, there is nothing left to tell, just that, I survived.

I survived.

Passion Play

Yeshua embraces the blooming Mary Magdalene in tones of
pink and green, gardener outside the tomb Risen Christ.
Gardenia and hyacinth are their hideaway, and Rabboni
and the Scarlet Woman make love to the tune of Holy Doves.
The grass bleeds purple like wine, his seed awakens the
sleeping generations in the Holy Grail of the Watchtower’s
womb, and there are lover caresses and soft words spoken
as Jesus finger-combs Mary Magdalene’s auburn wanton curls.
Sins of the flesh, no more, for Christ makes congress holy.
And they are immortalized only in apocryphal legend, where
Mary was his most beloved disciple, who he would kiss on the
mouth often, and she led the Early Church, and sparred wits
with Peter, only to have Paul write her and Joanna, Salome,
and his mother out of history near completely, and the Pope
labelled her a whore, if only because Mary spoke her mind to
the gathered table of disciples, she apostle of apostles, and
I am just a bee on a sunflower, watching two heavenly bodies
collide, witness to the heiros gamos of the Bride and Savior.
Then I become Mariam, and he cuts a rose from a bush for me,
just like Michael of old, and their is no passion in a play
without love, love for all humanity, or just love for woman
who knows when to anoint with spikenard, to wash away with
glorious crimson hymn tears, Mary was sick like me, they say,
with seven devils haunting her mind, of which Christ cast out.
I can tick off my illnesses one by one, and when Yeshua lays
hands on me, it is as if my brain is not a cheesecloth bandage
wound – I see clearly, this fallen woman I am is holy, these
bruises and scars I carry put me next to God, at his feet,
at his breast, eating his Eucharist miracle of cardiac flesh.
There is no greater God than the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
no one as sweet as wild honey and locusts on the tongue as him.
He follows a long line of prophets, and I follow him through the
desert near Galilee, playing my cymbals, washing the laundry,
sewing the clothes, and we break bread at dawn and marvel at
Israel’s beauty, then come nighttime, know each other as woman
and man in tents of camel skin. My alabaster jar is on me, for
the time of his passion is quickly coming, and I regret the day
I met Christ, for to love him is to lose him, and that my friend
is only softened by his resurrection, when he was so filled with
holy light, he looked remotely like the man I had held to my chest
and promised eternity to. My Rabboni, time has called me wicked,
penitent, and every shade of red, but you are the blue flame, so
let us kiss and touch and taste the dust of Creation, each other,
and when only bones dancing in the desert are left, I want my tibia
to fit into your rib cage, your phalanges into my sternum, and we
will be the greatest love story this world has ever known, forbidden
for two thousand years, and they put my skull in a jar and call it
holy, and Rennes les Chateau holds some truth, some lies, but the path
I walked in France is just another trail of tears, I was ripe with
child, and Sarah my dear daughter, our daughter, fathered the line
of kings, so in a sense, our legacy lives on, sweet Emmanuel. Claim
me into the sky from my repentant cave, and I will ascend in time.

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.

Frau Tottenkinder

In the wild woods the Witch Mother writhes
with snakes in her hair and amber glass eyes
dancing the tango of curses, serpents ride
on the swell of her hips, their tails dried
into rattlesnake poison, she bubble brews
ointments and anointments of stardust and dew,
demoness wailing, caterwauling the moon
she the dark side of the Devil’s tune.


And you rise in my throat, the hearts we exchanged
and ate the gristle and gore and holiness of, O
Lamb of God, it is rare steak on my tongue and soft
puffball mushroom fritters, your Immaculate Heart,
your grafted soul to my covenant, I am walking drunk
through the day, intoxicated by the Holy Ghost, and
I am a colt newborn and falling over in pastures green.
Be patient with me, O Christ, O You Prince of Peace,
loving myself is the hardest lesson I have ever had
to face, and feeling your divine waters wash me up
in a sea of agape devotion and boundless kindness
is like a tide across my back, then you are at my
shoulder blades, and my wings flex, those mangled
white feathers bloody from a war I fought in your
name! Phantom pinions, O Yeshua, where does the time
go, water under the bridge, you drown demons but mine
can swim, so you trample legions beneath your bare
feet, pearly soles burning with the Pentecost as you
scar the seven devils with your righteous wrath, this
time you came with a sword, and when I woke I saw a
circlet of constellations – was that your Heavenly Crown?
You washed me in the waters of life, you kissed my brow
and said, everything will be okay, you will be the
chronicler and my martyr and emissary, and I am
laced in thorns, a Sleeping Beauty in a forest of
roses, where you hew me in two like an axe, then
stitched me back together with glory, and we drank
each other’s wine, and knew the innards of Creation,
and I ate the bread of your flesh, and you swallowed
my witch heart, and the rose bushes strangled and
tangled, and you are life unbound, light unyielding,
so drive away my darkness, O Lord, and let me see!


He sits on a divan smoking opium poppy perdition,
dressed in a silk robe with butterflies, long night
hair perfect for strangling and tangling, Asmodeus
grins with shark tooth smile and beckons me in to
his little slice of Hell. His eyes are the gray of
storm clouds and his skin russet, and in long snaking
movements he is dancing the dance of seven veils,
stripping down to the core of the Sword of Samael,
his wrathful son who was once just a frightened young
demon, enslaved by Solomon to build the greatest
temple ever known, Asmodeus shows me his youthful
self searing in the hot Jerusalem sun, toil and
trouble as he is chained and lashed to a boulder,
dragging through dust and sandstorm to raise the
pillars of the Song of Solomon high, demons sweat
and shake, Goetia enchained, as the temple walls
rise high as the moon. Then, flash back, and it is
the Flood, and Asmodeus walks the world in his first
life, fallen from the stars out of love for mortals.
The waters meant to drown him drive him to high places,
and for forty days and forty nights he clings to a
mountain spire, mourning the loss of his brethren
and Nahema. From there he developed his fear of
heights, and he despises birds and water, he cannot
swim, the Devil on two stilts, and Christ long ago
drove his head into the River Jordan as Asmodeus
screamed, casting him out, he has been bound many
a time, but Jesus’ punishment was like having God’s
burning foot of flame sear the side of his head as
the bubbles of your life breath flee up in panic.
He has not returned to Israel since, too scarred
by Sarah’s rebuffing, I see them splayed out as
lovers, and he was a fool for that girl Tobias loved,
pining after a silk haired maiden who the world
seemed to exist in her water pail, and Asmodeus
could see stars and the Word of God in her eyes.
No matter seven husbands slain, Nahema is back,
and he takes now to the stage as Dr Franknfurter,
doing the Time Warp through the ages as a fuck you
to the gender norms of the Abrahamic faiths, the
Black Pillar of Flame is serpent legged, clinging
to a mountain as Michael casts him out, and he falls
into Hell in the midst of a storm, it is raining ice,
and he is crying bitter tears as he wanders in the
wastes, still, so young, barely 25, trying to find
a father who built a kingdom on ash and bone, this
King of the Goetics was once but a curious child,
and at the heart of every demon is a lonely babe,
who looks at the stars and thinks, I was once afire
with God’s love too, so now that I am coals, what
is this aching gap in my chest? Asmodeus finishes
smoking the dregs of the opium in his den of inequity
then we know each other as woman and shapeshifter,
slithering and piercing and drinking down blood,
it is any day in Hell, under a banner of a moon,
and the tides of his life are a boiling river, so
best stay away from the water’s edge, you are only
this close to