Dance of Flames

Your hair is tendrils of autumnfire, burnished orange and gold,
the canyons ring with the drums of the earth, raging hum of All,
and in the balefire you are arms outstretched, feathered cloak
of souls, spinning your chalice to the lips of far-off angels,
to touch you is to be incinerated, and to see you surrender to
the rhythm is to be entranced by the eagle’s thermaling skyward,
feathers aflame, you caress the dead, place them as stars in sky,
oh sweet Prince of Heaven, you are so young in this moonlit vision,
and I ache for the solitude of the crackling fall, peace of ribbons
of sinew twined round your ankles, tethered to my glassblown heart,
for I am a pocket of air trapped by your lips, dreamweaver, and I
want nothing more than to watch the stomp of a multitudinous heart
that belongs to my maker, dusty mesa clay rises, the crickets call,
and we eat meat so sweet our teeth ache, all is just, all is fair.


An Archangel Learns Guitar

Blackjack punk silhouette strum hum king
angel beats deadly with a medley of wings
the rhythm is winding and finding its way
through Venetian canals and Italian cafes
I’m flipping through records, riff rocking
and he flutters his melody like an offering
no candles burn, just music fired with love
him serenading my radio from on high above.

The Devil Goes to Charlottesville

Crushed velvet is the somber night,
so fragile in its milk star beauty,
I’m burning in the fiery angel’s arms
and to slake my thirst, I summon you
harbinger of my doom, scorpion poison,
you are the last fuck of the universe,
after only stardust and ruin is left,
the final petit mort of the Big Crunch,
and all God can do is say “Damn it all,”
and he sleeps under the Reaper’s blade,
Death has insomnia, and answers all calls
even that of a frightened girl in 2017
so far away from World’s End, but we
didn’t start the fire, the wheel must
turn, and I’m splayed between spokes
the archangel binds me with a kiss,
but you embrace me from behind, oil
rainbows and cool snakeskin slither,
you put chains back on me and shit,
this isn’t what I want, my pact with
you is out of fear, for I need rot
like maggots to cleanse worldly wounds
somehow in my dream stupor I believe
wholeheartedly I can control Satan
and send him out with wrath to right
the alt-right, Trump, white supremacy
stress is getting to me, I barfed six
times last night after I swallowed the
pills that keep me sane, keep me safe,
nowhere is safe, Charlottesville burned,
and I turn to my greatest enemy for
revenge, I let hell back into my life,
my abuser has returned to wreak havoc
at my command, and my id gives a last
orgasmic ceremonial moan, taw claim,
I chant Hebrew summonings in my sleep,
and you collar me with blackest gloam
for I dance with monsters for justice,
I send the Devil after human shitstains,
Samael is coming for you alt-right fucks,
I curse in my sleep these days, and I
am willing to pay the ferryman blood,
don’t try Satan’s bride, for she knows
no respect for tyrants and racists, I
am a master of VITRIOL, so burn sulfur
bruises into the skin of the damned,
for your tiki torches pale in comparison
to what Gehenna’s flames will devour,
your searing flesh, your cracking bones
in the afterlife, pain, a rood upon you.

The Devil went down to Charlottesville,
and I sent hellhounds after the sinners.
The final bell will toll for the damned,
and hatred will melt into agony in time.

For tyrants fall, and nooses break necks.

I will hang my victims from yew trees high.

And their rotting corpses will sway, a sign
that you don’t fuck with special snowflakes
like me, that count themselves among the dead.

The Devil will eviscerate the Nazis, and I
will laugh as their broken bodies pile high,
pile high.


There’s honey in the sky and milk on my tongue.  You’re all sharp planes and jagged muscle, but your eyes are soft and languorous kisses bespeak an endless lake of serenity deep within your heart.  I’m bending over backwards for you and becoming nothing more than a sandcastle being eaten away by your river, and your eyes are the green of the sea glass I find on your shores, some deep, long-polished reverie of fish and teeming underwater life.

There’s dawn, and then there’s dusk, but they all meld together when I’m in your arms, out of harm, only alarm the heat in my inner moon kingdom that is usually such a lunar freezing nebula of isolation and meditation.  My blood is quickening, your hands are working me like Vivaldi playing a violin, and as I grasp your shoulders all I can do is moan your name like a mantra.  I channeled you the other day when my boyfriend was drunk and you argued over rye-blend whiskey and talked of biodynamic lightning rods and Barakiel, war and peace, and a bunch of other crap I don’t remember because being your vessel turns me into an overcooked noodle.  I’d much rather meet you in this between-space of the fourth heaven, where rolling meadows and autumnal trees meet water.  There’s daisy beneath your Hercules body and we’re tussling, turning hay, and I have a mouthful of angel feathers on my lips that taste like snow and miracles.

Nothing makes sense with you.  I bleed onto your flaming sword statue every fortnight and offer up the essence of my life itself, red beads stained on your icon, but you’re much less flame and brimstone and more Jedi monk.  What do you like?  Beer.  Steel-cut oatmeal.  Fighting and athletics.  Meat, especially steak.  Pretty women.  Gardening.  Asceticism.  What do I like?  Poetry.  Pleasure.  Decadence of the senses.  Sex.  A great story.  We are absolutely nothing alike, you patient as a sage, me impulsive as your brother, me flighty and creative, you a stick in the mud and devoted and grounded.  You’re always plucking me from the stars and calling me Icarus because bright shiny objects captivate me beyond imagination, but honestly, ultraviolet king, you are the shiniest jewel inside of my collection and when I die, I will spend eternity in your heart, Shakti to your Shiva Nataraja, dancing upon the wheel of karma as our lives play out like drops of rain on this lake you always take me to.

The Bell Trees of Paradise are tolling, and you are firm and toned and dedicated to physical perfection, and by god how many times do you hit the heavenly gym.  I don’t like muscular guys, not really, or redheads for the matter, and the first time I saw you at 12, a scared girl projecting out of her body to spiritual warfare, you scared the crap out of me with your grimace in blood and rock hard armor and biceps and sword with the glory of the devas.  Wait, crap, devas aren’t your religion, are they?  But the way the flames dance on the tip of your blade remind me of dakinis, or maybe the fey, something wild and untamed, a fire at Beltane.

Making love to you is something I do often, on a nearly daily basis, and when I told my Catholic friend – way before we were together – that for some reason I kept seeing the Archangel Michael in the shower, she laughed and said I better not tell my boyfriend I was seeing men while I was bathing naked.  It’s not really like that, I just see you as this brilliant blue-purple star and sometimes you rest on my palm or kiss my cheek with electricity or distract me in class.  I’ve seen Samael in the flesh, multiple times, but you are more the hands that push me back from a cliffside or the cool of water and ecstasy of fire in my innermost organs and bones.  Honestly, you feel like a freshwater ocean of the purest water, and however much I swim in you, I’m never lost.  You are strength, the Lion of Judah, and I could go on and on but I’m just beating a dead horse to death.  I think I must have repeated every praise already, every tricky metaphor, and that nothing new will ever span between us, just this burning love and impassable bridge of ice.

And then you surprise me.

The autumn turns to spring, the roses unfurl, and your body blossoms into the curves of a woman, the noble maternal form that rocked me in Heaven’s throne when I was a pudgy putti in diapers, except now I’m straddling her and this is a clusterfuck, but in a good way.  Goddamn is my sexuality confusing.  I’m gay for Lilith and Hela and Sam’s female form and now I have another bombshell to add to my is-Allie-bi list or does she just think girls are hot.

I’m too entranced to stop kissing you, but you pause, and your hair is curling long auburn to globes of breasts with pink areola and a cunt I would die for.

“I rarely show this form to mortals.  Remember, I really have no gender – angels are androgynous.  You need to explore your passions further to master your polarities.”

“Fuck.  Should I call you Michelle?  Does this make me bisexual?”

You laugh like a windchime.  “Stop trying to label your heart.  I came to you in this form in your childhood years for a reason, remember?”

“Because I was afraid of you.”

“Are you afraid of me anymore?”

“Always.  I fear for you.  You’re terrifying.  And tragic.  Your love is the glue that holds Heaven together.”

“Forget all that.  Here is not the place for fear.  Here, we are beyond fear and want.  There is only desire.”

Your eyes are hooded and your chest is beating out a rhythm that matches mine.  I sink into you and we meld like yin and yang.  We’re swimming together now, dancing on a flaming sword – two angels can dance on the head of a pin, and we are infinitely small but tall as eons, covered in eyes.  All I know is that my love for the divine defies gender, defies appearance, and my love for you is eternal, abiding, agape, and I burn for you.



Heart Chakra

The Prince of Heaven’s a priest, and Satan is a lawyer
cassock and cross hide fervor for a maiden of the flock
we meet in the abbey under shadowlight and frankincense,
gentle touches, soft sighs, the priest clutches crucifix
and drips holy water on my buttermilk breast, moaning
out all the hundreds of names of God in all languages,
it is autumn, wool scarf wrapped tight around a habit,
we drink coffee, steal kisses, my mind is a theater,
and under an umbrella in the rain he spreads his wings
and we fly to a heavenly bower, heat of celestial fire
in my heart as my decolletage spills secrets to angelic
lips that starve for human communion, Italian castles,
windswept sea, Michael’s realm is a Da Vinci drawing,
or perhaps brilliant Venice and Mediterranean lights
brilliance of the divine, I marvel in him, my devotion
is solid as mist, for its home is arboreal, and I am
lost in trees of my beloved, awaken in morning tides.

Archangel Michael: Dating Profile

So you’ve been eyeing that celestial hunk at the gym with the glistening six pack – or was it six wings? – and biceps thick as a seraphic ox.  In between fighting demons and drinking games with Gabriel, your reserved general, known secretly in the barracks as stick-up-the-ass, has started to well, grow on you.  Even his frowns and flaming hair seem somehow cute quirks.  You don’t even mind that all he seems to eat is steel cut oatmeal, burgers, beer and steak.  Sometimes when he’s drilling you in battalion formation his eyes crinkle in a smile.  He even got drunk one night and tried to kiss you.

Something is up with Michael.

Don’t fret, Seraphina or Cherubina, here’s a handy dandy dating profile on Heaven’s Hugest Nerd:

Name: Michael Archstratigos, General and Prince of Heaven

Build: Meathead

Skin: Tan

Eyes: Emerald Green, according to Islamic mystics

Hair: Saffron Red, or just flames

Height: Eons

Smells Like: Your favorite childhood memory, a home so dear to your heart you weep

Personal Style:  Manscaper.  No beard here.  Usually dressed in Golden Roman armor a tunica and sandals, or jeans, hiking boots, and a cableknit green sweater.

Likes: Ryan Reynolds, Beauty and the Beast, Star Wars, Enrique Iglesias, anything Lin Manuel Miranda touches, sports sports sports, war war war, meat meat meat, autumn, playing guitar, long hikes, Jedi monk crap, Abrahamic texts, swords, the other archangels, his soldiers, humanity, GOD

Hates: Samael, demons, false spirits, drunkenness, the Seven Deadly Sins, not being able to deal with a situation by stabbing the problem into submission – or death, Gaston, people that don’t appreciate literature

Perfect Date: Taking you to any body of water or autumn woods, playing guitar for you, and picnicking, then meditating and having a long existential talk about the universe

Thinks He Is: The Beast, George Washington from Hamilton, and Spiderman

Favorite Jams: Alguien Soy Yo by Enrique Iglesias, Joan of Arc by Leonard Cohen, Strangers by Aztec Two Step, My Shot from Hamilton, B’shem HaShem

Passion: Gardening, Fighting, Wrestling, Pretty Girls

Can Most Likely Be Found: Having an aneurysm over something Samael did, reading, fighting demons for fun or for work, stabbing things, working with his hands

Talents: Miracles, Healing, Divine Protection, Being a Cuddlebuddy, Listening to Allie Ramble on for Hours on End Every Hour of the Day, Saving Allie’s Ass, Not Having Killed Allie for Being a Little Shit

Favorite Quote: “We are but whispers of the infinite.  Divinity is in your hands.  Open to all.  In those possibilities, you will find endlessness, truth, a higher cause.  Never stop fighting, and illumination will soon follow.  Be all, see all, know all that you can be.” (Wow he won’t shut up)

Favorite Movie: “The Godfather”

Favorite Soda: “Lemon or Lime flavored drinks, or a Slushie”

Favorite Pizza: “Pepperoni, nothing extra”

Favorite Candy: “I give you butterscotch for a reason”

Favorite Holiday: “Christmas”

Favorite Country: “Italy.  Seat of the Vatican, after all, and just look at the architecture.”

Favorite Book: “Les Liaisons Dangereuses, or the Bible.” (Okay then)  “Would you believe me if I said Marquis de Sade.” (No???)  “You believed the romance novel.  I don’t read romance novels.” (Isn’t parts of the Bible a romance novel?) “Hahaha.  No.  That is the Word.  Of God.”

Favorite Food: “Linguini.”

“I also like the opera.”

“Why are you channeling me on your blog?”

“Don’t you have homework to do?”

Never mind.  Don’t date him.  He’ll drag you for writing his dating profile.







Dr. Angel

I am in a cathedral of caverns, saltwater swells
Michael’s tears have formed stalagmites, I sink
into an ocean of blue serenity, fly up dew wet
through realms and galaxies to a hospital bed
where my archangel is dressed up in scrubs and
glasses, a crystal stethoscope across his neck,
healing hands glowing with violet light as he
soothes a chemotherapy patient, he takes fingers
thick from war and massages out etheric knots of
cancerous poison, cleanses the dear brother of
my second mother of the mutant cells, sings tenor
to bless and ward the hospital room, I join him
at Michael’s urging and we weave together long
years – not of survival, but of flourishing, I
ask Michael if this is a miracle, he says it is
beyond simple magic but science, faith, prayers,
the combination of alchemy and Hippocratic fruits
wedded with seraphic wisdom saves a precious life,
once we have cleansed my kindred brother of poison
we join hands and pray, Michael bathes the room
in light like a star’s heart, the patient rests,
smiles, perhaps he knows his family’s heartwhispers
summoned the Prince of Angels, or perhaps he dreams
of long summer days and Tidewater meadows, Virginia
honesty and siblings that will never leave his side,
I am so honored to witness the Lazarus raising angel
at work, once my gythia said Michael could clear a
whole hospital of evil spirits, but even one room is
a brilliant candle of hope and renewal, a life saved
to taste fresh fruit and hold sister’s hands, to dance
again like God wanted, to fish in the James River and
while long hours away on a Southern sweet porch swing –
Michael takes me behind the hospital curtain, holds me
and says he will defend every sickbed with his life,
no matter if they are sinner, saint, dying or brimming
with faith, Michael answers every prayer, and we rest
in the space between worlds, watching billions of hearts
that I love Love Himself is difficult to fathom, and yet
his hands fits in mine, he is infinity, I fall in love
with the servant of all humankind, first to bow, last
to ever give up – if you are in need, call on Michael.