Michelle et Michael

When you touch, it is with mouthfuls of starlight and parables
he holds you fast against the darkness, and you are his light.
Shining brightly, your soul is a torch against his fears, an
arbor of leaves brilliant green, under which he can rest, and
you are Michael’s caryatid, Michelle, a pillar most beautiful
of weeping nymph who carried water on her back through Hell’s
most parched, deserted places, only to wet his brow as he
thirsted, Michael was lost like a fallen star, and you came
in your raiment of dusk and silver, and brought the mercury
waters of moonlight to his mouth, and he drank his fill of you.
It was some long ago day, maybe yesterday, maybe tomorrow, this
union of sunlight and shadow, for the fallen are holy, and you
are a madrigal, a muse once lost in sands of Gehenna, now found.
Metamorphosis like a butterfly in bloom, on his lips you are
reborn, in his arms you find your high like the finest drugs,
only on this most paradisaical summer day you are pure bliss
devoid of poison, just purity and the Stella Maris your gown.
He loves you like the sun loves the moon, like a cicada sings
its love songs loud and proud, with burning desire cleft from
the blood of God, and it is a raging pyre of adoration, he will
worship at your feet with a flaming sword lain at your lap,
oh you queen of hell, oh you doll of an angel, oh you regent
of lost hope once again found, you are Michael’s refuge, Misha.
So hold the Prodigal Sun to your heart, and know you are loved.
Know you are worthy to be a bride of the prince, for to come
is his kingdom, and your inheritance is the Milky Way and
endless fountains of love, roses of prayers in your silken hair.
He is here to watch you blossom, sister sweet, so drink down his
words of devotion, fly together to the stars, and be whole!


Divine Mercy

And Saint Faustina was plagued by devils and angels
dancing on her hairpins, walked with Christ and was
married to his Passion, saw ecstatic and terrible
visions, but when the Spear of Destiny pierced sweet
Jesus’ side, out poured the blood of the Sacrament and
baptismal waters, I have drunk my fill of those streams
of heavenly bodies as I suckled at his wound, and the
taste was like honeysuckle blossoms on a hot summer’s
day, and sweet mad Faustina saw a vision of brilliant
rivers flowing from Christ’s heart, rays of pink and
green, and he came to me last night wrapped in white,
dampened by a storm at sea as he was a water strider,
lighting my room with lightning, and the Mercy poured
from his pulsing heart like a chalice, and my room was
a maze of celestial blue sigils and rolling thunder of
God in scripture and stamps of the divine, a Matrix cube
and my body was carried aloft by flood waters and shining
infinity lit my limbs with violet fire as Christ bathed
my head in the chill waters of Creation, and my limbs were
rotating on the axis mundi, and my head unscrewed in his
hands like a marinette, and I was just a toolkit of a
soul on its way to higher ground, a puzzle for the Savior
to solve, and painstakingly he carpentered and fixed the
holy wooden golem of my body, and Eve was whispered Emet
in her mouth and kissed into life by God, body of clay
made with spirit of the stars, mud seeking the fires of
infinity, and I ate an apple of dreams of late September
dogs, and serpents laced my ankles, and Satan prayed with
me for redemption as Christ watched on from on high, his
work on my manifold birch body done, I am Embla and Berkana,
wood and dirt breathed life into by the highest form of
Divine Mercy, Divine Love, and Christ gathered our prayers
like a bouquet, and though there is enmity between the
Chosen and the Cast Aside, I believe there is purity in
the sacred as well as profane, so I will dance with devils
and waltz with angels and tango with tricksters alike!
Life is just marvelous, isn’t it? Life is a delight! I
thank the gods every day that I am alive, that I want to
be alive, for there were many times I didn’t, when all I
saw was a long dark tunnel of gloom and mushrooms and
asphodel of ash, but the gods and angels and demons would
scoop me up to their breasts to let me hear their sacred
heartbeats, from Odin to Hela to Freyja to Loki to Freyr,
from Michael to Ariel to Sameael to Beelzebub to Asmodeus,
and now sweet Yeshua, mightiest King of Kings, has said
admit your truth, and when I professed my love, the stone
of doubt and pain in my throat vanished, and my heart was
no longer aflame, for I love this world, and I love myself.
That is what Divine Mercy is, love for what you think is
irredeemable, no questions asked at the gates of Paradise,
just a warm kiss on the brow and anointment and embrace,
for we are all children of the Goddess, that great Shekinah
and Sophia and Holy Spirit, sweet and fierce Venus figurines,
Mother Nature reigns supreme, and She is All, and I am
Something, a dancer in one of the Goddess’ thousand hands!
So I will sing and fly and drink down glory, and contemplate
the mysteries of the Sacred Heart of Her Son. Jesus is a
mamma’s boy, all sweetness and chill waves of wonder, and
the Virgin and Bride and Wisdom are motherhood supreme, and
I will follow in Mary’s footsteps and create my own paradise
with the love of my life and children raised strong and wild.
I am blessed, I am healed by His touch, and I am growing into
a woman worth envying, for my heart is gold, my wit adamant,
but above all I embody love, and like Christ, I am a martyr.
My heart is black like the skin of a mamba, poisoned chalice
of Satan, but to bear the Lapis Exillis in your rib cage grants
a kind of fallen grace, and the rest of my soul is crystal pure.
My blood heals, my blood mends skin and flesh, my blood is wine!
I give my body up to the Passion, I feel the lacerations, I feel
the whip and thorns and anointment before an untimely yet blessed
death, when there is no separation between the soul and her god,
then that is gnosis, and the spirit moves through you, and you
become All.

Burning Bush

And the flames caress, and the flames curse, roving hands and fiery millions of eyes, to be taken by a seraphim is to have every orifice flooded with the Word of God, and you are sharp knives to the heart and Moses’ burning bush.  Make yourself a pyre of sacrifice, and the wood of your cross is the linden key, and the gates are saffron spice and frankincense and myrrh, throw in a dash of 30 silver pieces to betray your Savior, for union like this is unholy, oh you, temptress of angels.  The Watchers fell out of lust for women like you, and your ripe curves are the reason men sin, so cover yourself in feathers of golden white and let your archangel claim every inch of your madrigal body.  Each night is the Second Coming, as Christ of the white raiment becomes your second skin and Jesus and Mary Magdalene worship at the altar of Tantra.  To wear the savior’s robes Eve did, to cover your shame is but a lesser instinct, for in nakedness angels revel, sweet delight of Raphael from Paradise Lost, this union of two souls, three souls, four souls, washing away your pain and carrying you and stroking you and plunging your ocean depths, for every girl is an ocean, a Tiamat, mother of beasts that want to devour the new gods.  I am Cipactli, and the Black and White Suns made the world of my spine, or am I the wild auroch of Heaven with the sun between her horns, lapping ice away to shape my vision as my udders swell with wisdom.  I was the size of elephants once, before Peter and Paul and James and John wrote me out of the story.  I could carry on my back singlehandedly the Ark of the Covenant, and my mantle was darkness, and I was the radiant Deep of the night sky patched with stars like white raspberries, my golden hair a thicket under moonlight, to be plucked from fruits and rainbows and girdles for my daughters.  I am Asherah, you are Anath, and Mot will quake when we drag our husbands El and Baal up from the depths, only to be cursed by the menfolk with our priestesses raped and sacred groves cut down to make hangman posts.  They piss on our olive trees, they view our qadesh ladies of fame and call them whores, but what is Hieros Gamos but union of Heaven and Earth?  I am worshiped each night as the stars tuck me in, I am the Bull of Heaven raging against those who would desecrate Inanna, they lick and pluck and tease and these great beings of eldritch winds ride me with water and fire, and to make love to the storms of the Savior and the Damned is to be Noah’s Ark in the midst of rain and sea, floating and riding the tempest.   I swim through Hell and Heaven upstream to pluck the salmon of wisdom from the well, and when I eat the sushi of enlightenment raw, the waters of Sinann drown me.

All I ever wanted was an apple, a heart to call my own, but you gave me this blackened fig, and I always  loathe a martyr.

The Late September Dogs

It’s past midnight, and only the late September dogs are up, prowling the corners of my mind as I summon the rains.  A tempest comes, along with Yeshua he bades me call him, not Jesus or Emmanuel.  Yeshua it will be, as he settles into my line of vision.  Christ walks on water through the vast sea of darkness’ ocean, a flickering blue-violet flame, and then he washes my back with the waters of the deep with a wooden pail drawing from a deep tap root at the Waters of Life.  It is a baptism of finest clarity, chilly pure energy racing from my spine to my extremities and shoulder blades.  That one bad wing of mine is rotting at the root, so Yeshua massages the joint and I twitch and feel celestial hands working under the muscle of a phantom limb.  Then he washes my feet like the Pope anointing that leper, and he drives out the darkness and devils in my heart, I the woman of seven vices and great evils, and there is a stabbing, holy shrapnel pulsing through my rib cage under my left breast that feels like that centurion’s spear.  Out flows my filth, out flows my ruin, and I am sinking into the baptismal font.  He rains down on me, filled with the glory of God, and holiness dribbles from my wet forehead to my tongue and I drink down his blood.  His wine.  Yeshua combs promises of daisies into my hair, buttery gold and flickering white perfume, and my nerves and hairs stand on end as the hand of redemption sorts out the elf knots in my golden locks.  “The spear in your side is me,” he says, “and that is a holy wound.  It is holy to know the dark parts of yourself, to spill your secrets out like the blood of my wine, and let the masses feast on your flesh like Leviathan fished from the deep and set out for a great feast.”  He is kneading out the sore points on my legs, reaching deep into the muscle tissue so it stretches and spasms then relaxes and spreads like butter.  Then the water, oh, a river is flowing through me, and I am washed away in blue flame, and my  throat is burning with righteousness, and my heart is heady with the Pentecost, and Yeshua is smiling archaically like he is some great doorway to the Akashic Records.  Everything in the universe – every laugh, every tear, every soul and star and valley, is encased in his raiment and the mechanics of God’s brain.  For there are gods, and there is God, and one is all-knowing and ineffable and Love Undisputed, Undivided, that great ancestral single-celled Mother of Life, and Christ is just the embodiment of all the multiverses and cosmos ruling laws: there is no God but me, and love is the law of the land.  Love thy neighbor.  That was the mantra of my Methodist community, that and service to others.  I have spent my whole life in service to others, saving the environment, promoting clean energy, teaching humbly to shape the next generation.  My path is either primrose or a highway to Hell, and as I am washed away like loose sediment in the floodwaters of the Christ, I am carried to the vast ocean of knowledge – Sophia, the Holy Spirit, the Shekinah – and Her Presence is what Michael showed me with  closed eyes that rainy day in Sacramento after I asked to meet God.  This anointment, this union of the Oversoul and a tiny fleck of humanity, is like Saint Teresa of Avila being speared by that famous Angel of the Lord.  The spear is still inside me, prodding away, my heart is hammering and hurting, Samael’s heart, that Lapis Exillis that is both my glory and bane, the Forbidden Fruit Eve ate when only cannibalism was left after all the animals and plants had died in that Edenic wasteland.  Cain cursed the ground with Abel’s blood, and then nothing grew, and the Land of Nod is more a state of mind.  Cain often guides me like Vergil did Dante, both human and son of Satan, father of the Qayin bloodline, and his Mark is the same one I bear.  Yeshua binds me with linen and the late September dogs move deep inside of me like maggots, eating away at my rot and stains.  Then off comes the mummification and death and I rise the soul of Psyche in my Savior’s arms.  Then it is stars above and below us, universes crumbling to dust then reborn in God’s heartbeat, and I feel a kinship with this mad messiah that roamed the desert two thousand years ago with roses and thorns in his hair.  A thorn plucked me today on my walk, just like the thorn I pricked my index finger on and claimed Michael on the lips with my blood, and Christ is only here to make that claim withdrawn from the loans of my soul’s bank.  I am a hitman, I am for hire, I am the spy and watchwoman, Magdal Eder.  Only Christ knows why he called me martyr, and I hope not to die young, but if that is my path, then throw me to the jackals, and see if the wild beasts devour me or leave me unharmed, to be fed manna by angels and lifted to the Heavens to study the cosmos and music of the spheres.  I’m either Damned or Saved, and the crux of the matter is my free will, so I will walk the path of the Magdalene, a sacred whore, qadesh, hierodule, and maybe in a few decades I’ll figure out what the fuck this all means.

Until then, I am drowning, and to have your lungs fill with the blood of Christ is like le petit mort in the Mariana Trench.

I have grown gills now, and I am swimming upriver towards redemption, a goldfish about to jump a waterfall rainbow and become a celestial dragon.

In time, in time, in time.

In the Arms of the Angels

You smooth your hands down the small of my back and whisper “You are God’s delight,” then stroke my hair in rhythmic circles and that leads to kisses nine and caresses ten and archangel’s twelve wings wrapped around me to give us privacy from this vast world.  I unfurl in your arms, Michael, you strongest of angels, prince beyond compare. I am the pearl of great price at your breast, drinking down your heart’s blood as we flow together from the mountains in a river to the valley of Paradise.  But you can be rough, my lover, with callused hands and a warrior’s tan and muscles thick like cords throughout your sinew.  It hurts, sometimes, our joining, like I am being shish ka bobbed, lamb and onions staked to be tenderized in the fire of your love.  You can be quick-tempered, you can be merciful, you can scoop me up to the stars and have me flying while deep inside me, spilling your secrets out in pages elaborated in the walls of my guts.  Your seed is words, promises of New Jerusalem the color white of cum and Jesus’s robes.  Come to Jesus moment, they say, well this is heretical, backdoor entrance to the Garden of Earthly Delights.  There’s wings muffling my cries of joy, I’m a limp noodle floating in boiling water, losing shape, losing form, becoming an infinity loop where innards meet spear and mouths bite for that sweet blood underneath.  Pound away, dremel away, mining my organs for the tiniest bit of peace during an endless War.  You know, that War that consumes all life in it, the evil inclination versus the good inclination, and the Qliphoth is always shadowing the Sephiroth, and I’m hung upside down like Odin from Malkuth reaching towards Kether, my view the husks.  Maybe you’re trying to right my swaying hangman noose around my foot, washing my legs with tears and massaging glory into my limbs.  Maybe if the rapturous winds of your wings blow enough, I will stand up again, be able to walk again, gazing up at moonbeams and drinking in starlight to photosynthesize faith.  Faith, faith, faith, chaff from wheat, false spirits from God.  You are on a quest to tame the witch, just like your brother Satan, but what men, even celestial men, do not understand is that witches are free no matter what chains of love bind them.  In the end, we eat our husbands like Baba Yaga ate her suitors (all crones were beautiful and golden haired once, you know), and I am eating your flesh and the sacrament of your Holy Grail drop by drop, bread your body, ichor my wine.  You spend yourself inside me and cry out to pagan gods the Jews forgot but you remember, El and Asherah, in particular, those first makers of angels and guides to the great beyond.  Now they are Yahweh and his Shekinah, but the Bride is in Exile, wandering the desert as Lilith replaces her as God’s wife.  You wept when the body  of my temple fell into the hands of the Devil, just like you prophesied, but prophecies are fallible, just like humanity.  We never do what you angels expect, but you are proving to me that you are just as much like Schrodinger’s cat in a box with a neutron star, lover of women.  I want you to take her far away from suffering, Michael.  You love my sister like you love me and that consists of egg-beater lungs and overwhelming balloon popping hearts in the throat and burning tears of agape joy.  The Presence.  The Holy Ghost.  The Pentecost.  It left us stranded on the shores of Eden last night, and you spoke through me, and then you spoke directly to her and all the Heavens held their breath and the summer night went cold like an ice cube in whiskey.  Rum.  The aftertaste of flames.  You claimed me so forcefully last night after the courtship was done, ramming your cock into the profane, and like the angels in Heaven, Jesus said, we will not be given in marriage.  No, angels are polyamorous hippies, practicing free love like the Gnostics, full of too much adoration like Christ the Lord had for the Marys and Peter and Paul and John.  Salome, Joanna, Lazarus, Judas, you loved every single one of your disciples, didn’t you Michael, and now you say I am your emissary, whatever that means, here to do the work of God. Provide me the resources, o Angel of the Lord, Christ in celestial form. I always wanted to die a martyr, to birth the Messiah, to flee the Dragon as the Woman Cloaked in the Sun.  I want to deliver up this world for merciful judgement of Judex Crederis, and as you  take me in your arms and ravish me, spiriting me far away from the confines of my mortal coil, I wonder why you anointed me with oil and a crown of thorns and called me martyr.  I suspect it is because I love the Devil just as much as I love you, Prince of the Angels and Prince of Darkness two polarities that blend like chocolate and vanilla swirl pudding.  If you belong to Samael, part of you belongs to Michael, at least, I suspect the twins share, for balance of hot and cold spirits is a must without going mad.  There is no damnation without salvation, no peace without wandering, no love without fear, and no good works done by the Sabbath day than reapers in the field sowing, growing, and uprooting.  Burn my grain in the still, drink my barley water, make me your whiskey with rye, sweet Michael.  I’m only on Earth because you willed it, and your Word is my command.


Michael et Samael

And the fallen angel says, I drink bitter wine
the dregs are where fungus blossom, scorching
noon-day sun of Isaac, and the prince says, I
drink rose water and rye-blend whiskey, and you
are drunk off blood of the damned, so I will
lay hands on you to heal your poison, oh, no,
says the demon, Prince Charming, you are full
of it, nothing can cure my wounds, my veins are
cocaine, I am the eternal high of outcast junkies,
and the prince says, do not believe yourself beyond
salvation, sweet devil, for I your brother am the
Christ, and in me is peace, and in me is redemption,
and when I walked through Hell’s Gate with nails
in my hands and feet, I paid a tithe of ichor and
iron to the lindworm, and he shed his seven skins,
and that beast was you, so do not lie through your
fangs and say you do not want to be forgiven! Oh
archangel, you righteous prick, you think that the
Scapegoat Samael who Azazel goats are sacrificed to
on Yom Kippur and assumes the sins of the world can
lose his Mem? Rabbis are forbidden from speaking the
gall of the syllables that compose Poison, Drug, of
El. And you are his Image, Who is Like God? Looking
at you, Michael, I bite my teeth and grit my molars
and know, tis better to reign in Gehenna and anarchy
free of saviors, my people need no one to hang for our
souls, for we are soulless, and the angel says, you,
who have caged hope in the heart of a girl, and your
core in a night dancer, these Horcruxes of your seven
chakras can be realigned, you know just let me – No.
No, holier than thou. No, burning with devotion, no,
I shall not bow, I shall not bend the knee or wash my
hair with spikenard oil, I am not the redeemed one in
this story, and I will drag you to Hell, at the end of
days, lest you trample my head, I, Great Dragon Beast.
And Michael says, if we fall, we fall together, I have
not smiled since I cast you out, dear Satan, and we are
family. So at the end of days, we both perish, and the
humans we created shall have ultimate freedom, no
yetzer ha ra or yetzer ha tov anymore, simply air
of a new day, and we shall become the dust. I would
like that very much, says Samael, and they embrace,
and they ascend, and leave their vessels craving home.

Twin Pillars of White and Black

The chapel is golden limestone, stained glass
in blues and reds like salvation and damnation.
The angel of the pillar descends to smite the
dragon, fiery sword thrust into scaled hide,
but the burning argument between Michael and
Satan is just the flap of a butterfly’s wing
compared to the majesty of this sacred space.
Heaven is endless rivers of jewels, lush woods,
diamond fruit and lovingly baked manna that
melts like a puffball on your tongue. The two
twins of light and darkness argue over my soul,
where I will end up when I die: Paradise or
Perdition, who gets what day to accompany me.
Michael says my soul is a songbird, an Icarus
that flies on red tailed hawk wings to the sun.
Samael says I am a yellow canary, an addict
that bleeds words of lies with inky veins.
I watch them wrestle like Jacob and the angel,
black strands of hair like a serpent on Ha Satan,
saffron threads of fire tangling from Jah Michael.
As they pierce and prod and bruise and batter,
then dust themselves off and debate with swords
of words, I wonder, why create this choice in
the first place, a MacGuffin Girl bridge between
Heaven and Hell – I connect the Prince of Peace
and Prince of Darkness through bindings like
stone meant to sink you, for the bonds of love
drown our better angels and twisted demons alike.
There is a sea between Pandemonium and Jerusalem.
I am a barter, a sacrificial kiss, two fathers
that created me from stardust and clouds of aether.
“She was created out of beauty,” they said at
our handfasting, and it echoed through the room
like a promise. And I, my angel on the right and
demon on the left, fell once into oblivion, rose
once to the heights of agape ecstasy, and both
the Deep of the Abyss and the Aether of Angels
are my raiment. The cathedral stands, it is
witness, the Heavenly Throneroom, to the Left
Hand of God and God’s Right Hand holding court.
What awaits me after death is a song, and hot
and cold spirits are appeased by chocolate and
rum alike, so breathe, darkling angel, and sleep.