Green Gnosis
Under the stunted oak I waited for her
the Green Lady
clothed in the black of the mystified, the lost,
but more truly, naked and unshriven, seeking a dying moment.
Under my tongue, the bitter mint
above my head, invisible leaves,
known only for the moonlight they intercept
below my back, the green grass that saw me through my youth.
She came to me in a spirograph body
wings twined with ivy in curliqued ringlets
her fingers the thorns of roses pointed with the blood of the unworthy
the edges of her smile reaching up to the stars, her teeth, barbed spikes
I had not expected fear, but terror came with her
and tho I sought a dying moment, she showed me a dying eternity
and tho I sought to bring wisdom into the real, she tore the real from me
and I was no more, and in unbeing, I lost my fear
She made me into a mist, expanding slowly until I was all
everywhere, blown by the wind of her breath
into eddies and whorls within myself
and it was I that her wings beat, to keep her aloft
She flew in me, acrobatically spinning and turning
casting off parts of myself in colors I have never seen
I flowed across her wings, she breathed me
and I flowed through her grasslike hair
Soon, oh, too soon,
boundries encircled me and I contracted, condensed
and rained myself on the stunted oak, and dripped from it in rivulets
and froze beneath it into this mortal body, clothed in black of the still
mystified, but no longer lost.
© 2001 Lizard
Monday, September 10, 2007
The Sacrements - Ayahuasca
It is really hot, 104 and rising, and it is only 8 am
and I am again dancing with the Snakebird
Chief says "yeah, but it's a DRY heat!" quoting Aliens
and the Warriors all laugh.
The wooden cup is empty, and I toss it onto the sand, waiting.
Chief, squatting, asks "what now, Lizard?"
And the half of my brain that does the thinking
wants to call an ambulance and get to some air-conditioning
but the mystic half simply says "dance, baby"
5 warriors, 5 hand-drums, circle, chant and beat,
Chief and I squat, awaiting the Snakebird
and Thinking Half says
"You couldn't just square-dance or collect stamps like a normal person, could you?"
as Mystic Half sways and waits.
The churning in my stomach heralds his coming, black Snakebird writhing.
Chief stands in front of me, her gentle hands on my cheeks, her green eyes staring into mine
"You okay"? her voice carries the slight distortion that Snakebird brings with him
Thinking Half wants to scream,
but Mystic Half smiles and sings "Oh Yeah."
The drumbeats stretch and distort into a black reverb wall of sound, casting the circle
and the dancers merge into heat-haze mutants,
limbs contorting and bodies flowing into a curtain of living, drumming ivy
Thinking Half says
"keep it together, Lizard, you know what this is.
It's a drug, that's all, none of this is real"
But Snakebird whispers to me in a voice that oozes out my pores like acid molasses
"Come to see me again, have you"?
Thinking Half's voice is a mockery of a voice,
lifeless computer-synthesised tech-support phone menu voice
"Dimethyl tryptamine acting in and around the visual cortex,
and an anticholinergic monoamine oxidase inhibitor to impede molecular destruction"
and Snakebird, thrashing in my stomache, whispers to Mystic Half
"I am almost here, shaman. Have you made your peace?"
and I drop to my knees in the sand.
Thinking Half knows he is doomed, but tries anyway
"Shaman, huh? Fat, unemployed white guy from Maine, a shaman? Laughable"
but Mystic Half has started the Song,
and Snakebird is emerging from my mouth in spurts of oily black raven feathers
as I convulse and vomit the the feathered serpent, writhing in the sand
as Thinking Half packs his bags and moves on.
Black as a raven flying on a moonless night he comes, and circles me as I retch on the sand.
He is all out of me, and he assembles himself, and rises up like a cobra and laughs
His eyes glow softly like lit cigarettes in the dark, and his fangs drip with venom.
"I see you, lizard. You come to me again.
Have you a question, or is this just a social call?"
"I have gone as far as I can go" I begin,
and I look upon him, knowing he already knows my intentions
"And you want more wisdom, more answers?" he hisses, angry.
"You want me to do it all for you?"
he wraps around me, pinning my arms to my sides, and he begins to squeeze
He strikes at my throat, and I feel the poison in me as I mutter, dying, "I have lost my faith".
I can feel the life ending, draining, ebbing,
as the fangs of the Snakebird pump the poisonous answers into my blood,
melting my body away, from the inside,
leaving me a hollow cauterised shell of pink flesh over a liquid acid mass,
and I feel him squeeze, and my dissolved innards gush out and splash onto the sand,
bright red and steaming an acid cloud,
and Snakebird looks at the foul pool of my liquified inner workings, and laughs,
uncloiling from the tissue-thin remains of my shell
"I have given you my gift, shaman. You are empty" he says
"I am not here to give you faith, or wisdom, or answers.
I am here only for my own amusement
The Shaman used to know that. Now, they just come looking for handouts,
praying at me like I was a crucifued god who actually gives a shit"
"Next time you come" he says, his outline fading
"Come empty, and perhaps I shall fill you".
"No! " I try to shout, not wanting him to leave,
but he has taken my breath, too, and nothing emerges but emptiness.
As he fades, the red noxious puddle that was once everything I am
congeals into a shining red homonculus form.
"Am I you? or are you me?" it asks,
and then melts back into the sand, and sinks into it, vanishing,
and the black wall of drumsound becomes colorless,
and the undulating wall of ivy unmutates and resolves into dancers
And Snakebird, now nothing but a feathered serpent made of smoke, whispers as he unfurls his raven wings
"It is not the cup, nor even the wine, it is the drinking
It is not the steps, nor even the dancers, it is the dancing
It is not the question, nor even the breath that blows the sound out, it is, and always will be, the asking"
and I am again dancing with the Snakebird
Chief says "yeah, but it's a DRY heat!" quoting Aliens
and the Warriors all laugh.
The wooden cup is empty, and I toss it onto the sand, waiting.
Chief, squatting, asks "what now, Lizard?"
And the half of my brain that does the thinking
wants to call an ambulance and get to some air-conditioning
but the mystic half simply says "dance, baby"
5 warriors, 5 hand-drums, circle, chant and beat,
Chief and I squat, awaiting the Snakebird
and Thinking Half says
"You couldn't just square-dance or collect stamps like a normal person, could you?"
as Mystic Half sways and waits.
The churning in my stomach heralds his coming, black Snakebird writhing.
Chief stands in front of me, her gentle hands on my cheeks, her green eyes staring into mine
"You okay"? her voice carries the slight distortion that Snakebird brings with him
Thinking Half wants to scream,
but Mystic Half smiles and sings "Oh Yeah."
The drumbeats stretch and distort into a black reverb wall of sound, casting the circle
and the dancers merge into heat-haze mutants,
limbs contorting and bodies flowing into a curtain of living, drumming ivy
Thinking Half says
"keep it together, Lizard, you know what this is.
It's a drug, that's all, none of this is real"
But Snakebird whispers to me in a voice that oozes out my pores like acid molasses
"Come to see me again, have you"?
Thinking Half's voice is a mockery of a voice,
lifeless computer-synthesised tech-support phone menu voice
"Dimethyl tryptamine acting in and around the visual cortex,
and an anticholinergic monoamine oxidase inhibitor to impede molecular destruction"
and Snakebird, thrashing in my stomache, whispers to Mystic Half
"I am almost here, shaman. Have you made your peace?"
and I drop to my knees in the sand.
Thinking Half knows he is doomed, but tries anyway
"Shaman, huh? Fat, unemployed white guy from Maine, a shaman? Laughable"
but Mystic Half has started the Song,
and Snakebird is emerging from my mouth in spurts of oily black raven feathers
as I convulse and vomit the the feathered serpent, writhing in the sand
as Thinking Half packs his bags and moves on.
Black as a raven flying on a moonless night he comes, and circles me as I retch on the sand.
He is all out of me, and he assembles himself, and rises up like a cobra and laughs
His eyes glow softly like lit cigarettes in the dark, and his fangs drip with venom.
"I see you, lizard. You come to me again.
Have you a question, or is this just a social call?"
"I have gone as far as I can go" I begin,
and I look upon him, knowing he already knows my intentions
"And you want more wisdom, more answers?" he hisses, angry.
"You want me to do it all for you?"
he wraps around me, pinning my arms to my sides, and he begins to squeeze
He strikes at my throat, and I feel the poison in me as I mutter, dying, "I have lost my faith".
I can feel the life ending, draining, ebbing,
as the fangs of the Snakebird pump the poisonous answers into my blood,
melting my body away, from the inside,
leaving me a hollow cauterised shell of pink flesh over a liquid acid mass,
and I feel him squeeze, and my dissolved innards gush out and splash onto the sand,
bright red and steaming an acid cloud,
and Snakebird looks at the foul pool of my liquified inner workings, and laughs,
uncloiling from the tissue-thin remains of my shell
"I have given you my gift, shaman. You are empty" he says
"I am not here to give you faith, or wisdom, or answers.
I am here only for my own amusement
The Shaman used to know that. Now, they just come looking for handouts,
praying at me like I was a crucifued god who actually gives a shit"
"Next time you come" he says, his outline fading
"Come empty, and perhaps I shall fill you".
"No! " I try to shout, not wanting him to leave,
but he has taken my breath, too, and nothing emerges but emptiness.
As he fades, the red noxious puddle that was once everything I am
congeals into a shining red homonculus form.
"Am I you? or are you me?" it asks,
and then melts back into the sand, and sinks into it, vanishing,
and the black wall of drumsound becomes colorless,
and the undulating wall of ivy unmutates and resolves into dancers
And Snakebird, now nothing but a feathered serpent made of smoke, whispers as he unfurls his raven wings
"It is not the cup, nor even the wine, it is the drinking
It is not the steps, nor even the dancers, it is the dancing
It is not the question, nor even the breath that blows the sound out, it is, and always will be, the asking"
Schism In Me
I want to write a poem and it won't come out.
But I am basing this on a false assumption:
that I actually 'write' poetry
Rather, they exist as entities floating in my imagination,
separate from the thinking me,
perhaps written by one of those other me's
with which I share this space
and I can only write a poem if that me
chooses to tell this me
that there is a poem, and where to find it.
it involves a fragmenting of my perspective
which is chaotic, but more precise
many of the individual me's that combine into my life
see things differently
and they argue through imagination, dream and poem
and nobody in there bothers telling ME how things are going.
I am obviously the last one on the call list,
but I am the only way things ever get written, shown to the outside.
I am the gatekeeper, and it is a boring fucking job.
But I am basing this on a false assumption:
that I actually 'write' poetry
Rather, they exist as entities floating in my imagination,
separate from the thinking me,
perhaps written by one of those other me's
with which I share this space
and I can only write a poem if that me
chooses to tell this me
that there is a poem, and where to find it.
it involves a fragmenting of my perspective
which is chaotic, but more precise
many of the individual me's that combine into my life
see things differently
and they argue through imagination, dream and poem
and nobody in there bothers telling ME how things are going.
I am obviously the last one on the call list,
but I am the only way things ever get written, shown to the outside.
I am the gatekeeper, and it is a boring fucking job.
A Prayer To Discordia (Eris)
Discordia
I bend a knee to you, keeper of all things bent
I ask that you visit all things perfectly aligned
and gently rearrange them
so that their keepers must again strive to align
and in doing so, freshly examine.
I ask you to visit the slow, steady progress of many lives
and shake them,
that they may again attempt to discerne their direction
and perhaps see possibilities where once dwelt only routine.
I ask that you visit the aura of the Tarot's fool gently
upon all who own more than will fit in a bag slung over the shoulder
that they may again appreciate the carefree
and the visionary lightness of a lack of obligation.
Goddess,
make the easy and smooth
just difficult and ragged enough that I need attend my footing
but only for as long as it takes me to again appreciate the road.
P.S. Thanks for the apple
I bend a knee to you, keeper of all things bent
I ask that you visit all things perfectly aligned
and gently rearrange them
so that their keepers must again strive to align
and in doing so, freshly examine.
I ask you to visit the slow, steady progress of many lives
and shake them,
that they may again attempt to discerne their direction
and perhaps see possibilities where once dwelt only routine.
I ask that you visit the aura of the Tarot's fool gently
upon all who own more than will fit in a bag slung over the shoulder
that they may again appreciate the carefree
and the visionary lightness of a lack of obligation.
Goddess,
make the easy and smooth
just difficult and ragged enough that I need attend my footing
but only for as long as it takes me to again appreciate the road.
P.S. Thanks for the apple
That Fat Man
We were made by that Fat Man. We don't know who made the Fat Man, but it isnt important, because we dont know. You have to understand that, first. It happened before us, before we were ever here. ANd that old Fat Man told us everything we need to know about BEFORE us, and he didn't tell us that, so it ain't important.
The Fat Man was walking on the earth, among the wood people and the stone people and the Dragons who owned the sky and the islands. He was a happy man, and maybe he was a little bit stupid, too, because he didn't know not to eat too much of the berries and the Bison, and he got fat. In fact, he got so fat that he sat down at he mouth of the Aullee river and never moved again. ANd the river brought him food, the nosefish and the candlefish and the occasional Bison that got too close to him getting a drink, adn he was still happy, and he got fatter and fatter. And as he sat and ate, he sang. Now, the Fat Man didnt have a language, like you and me, so he just made up sounds as he sat, so he could sing. When he saw the white clouds, he made a sound, and that was his sound for cloud, forever. Because the Fat Man never forgot anything. He had so many different sounds for things, that when he sang, he sang stories about the things he saw.
That old fat man made us. We dont know how, but we do know why. That fat man was sitting under the dark black stormy sky, one day, and he named the thunder, and as he sang his name for the thunder, the thunder rang out, and it sounded marvelous, the two sounds together, his name for the thunder and the thunder, and he fell in love with that sound. That old Fat Man could not ever make that sound alone. The Fat Man was upset about it for a while, but he thought about it. Why can't you sing a harmony with yourself? And if there is only one of you, like there was of him, why is there such a thing as a harmony?
So the Fat Man made us. And at first, he made just one of us, First Man. And maybe the fat man wasnt so stupid, even tho he ate himself fat, because he figured that if he had to have somebody to sing harmony with him, maybe everybody needed somebody to sing harmony. So he made First Woman, and discovered three part harmony, and then first Man and first Woman made First Kid, and they ALL sang harmony to the Fat Man. and each of them had a different voice, and the Fat Man loved it.
The Fat Man made us to sing harmony with him him. And that, my boy, is why you are alive. To sing harmony with the Fat Man as he sings his songs. Can you hear them, boy? Can you hear the Fat Man's songs? You got to listen real good. I have been listening all my life, and I been here 50 winters, and I only just heard them recently. Now I gotta figure out how to make a beutiful harmony with him. And that is why I am telling you about the Fat Man. You are my harmony.
But remember about Fat Man, boy. Don't eat too much.
The Fat Man was walking on the earth, among the wood people and the stone people and the Dragons who owned the sky and the islands. He was a happy man, and maybe he was a little bit stupid, too, because he didn't know not to eat too much of the berries and the Bison, and he got fat. In fact, he got so fat that he sat down at he mouth of the Aullee river and never moved again. ANd the river brought him food, the nosefish and the candlefish and the occasional Bison that got too close to him getting a drink, adn he was still happy, and he got fatter and fatter. And as he sat and ate, he sang. Now, the Fat Man didnt have a language, like you and me, so he just made up sounds as he sat, so he could sing. When he saw the white clouds, he made a sound, and that was his sound for cloud, forever. Because the Fat Man never forgot anything. He had so many different sounds for things, that when he sang, he sang stories about the things he saw.
That old fat man made us. We dont know how, but we do know why. That fat man was sitting under the dark black stormy sky, one day, and he named the thunder, and as he sang his name for the thunder, the thunder rang out, and it sounded marvelous, the two sounds together, his name for the thunder and the thunder, and he fell in love with that sound. That old Fat Man could not ever make that sound alone. The Fat Man was upset about it for a while, but he thought about it. Why can't you sing a harmony with yourself? And if there is only one of you, like there was of him, why is there such a thing as a harmony?
So the Fat Man made us. And at first, he made just one of us, First Man. And maybe the fat man wasnt so stupid, even tho he ate himself fat, because he figured that if he had to have somebody to sing harmony with him, maybe everybody needed somebody to sing harmony. So he made First Woman, and discovered three part harmony, and then first Man and first Woman made First Kid, and they ALL sang harmony to the Fat Man. and each of them had a different voice, and the Fat Man loved it.
The Fat Man made us to sing harmony with him him. And that, my boy, is why you are alive. To sing harmony with the Fat Man as he sings his songs. Can you hear them, boy? Can you hear the Fat Man's songs? You got to listen real good. I have been listening all my life, and I been here 50 winters, and I only just heard them recently. Now I gotta figure out how to make a beutiful harmony with him. And that is why I am telling you about the Fat Man. You are my harmony.
But remember about Fat Man, boy. Don't eat too much.
Fight
First was the house on the hill
with it's two giant elms on the top
and the rooms upstairs that gave some solace
because she was too lazy to climb the stairs
Everything was argument and fight
everything was on the edge of collapse
all the time
unending crisis after crisis
as she drank her way insane
I was trained to fight about everything
all the time
by a ruthless wordslinger
who backed it up with a wooden shoe
or a slap
or by kicking me in gut as I lay on the floor
trying to curl around her leg so she could not draw it back.
She tolerated being a mother until the day her daughter went away to college
and then she got rid of me.
First, she loaded me like a gun and shot me at my father
telling me that she might take me back if he said I had to go
but never just because I asked to come home.
And nothing in the world prepared him for what she had made me
and he was begging her to take me back in less than three months.
and I got what she told me I wanted: Her.
But if not a good mother, she was an excellent teacher
and she found that she was not winning the arguments,
not crushing me with her words,
then revelling in the impotence with which a child returns taunts.
She had sharpened me, and now I was starting to cut
and as her words could no longer beat me
it was hands, or sticks, or belts
and she knew I had to go before my patience for it ended
So off I went from the house on the hill
and she threw me out of the car at the private school
with a garbage bag full of clothes that had not fit in a year
a hundred dollars with which to buy textbooks
and an admonition to find somewhere else to stay for summer.
and it is, from this distance, my most shameful moment,
that as she drove off, I was weeping and begging to be allowed back.
I was 13
From the house on the hill to the castle on the hill
where nobody wanted to hurt me, fight me, beat me.
Everything changed, and I became insignificant
and I could not but hate insignificance
so I did the only thing I had ever been taught competently to do.
I fought.
I am 42. I have been married for half that time.
I do not hit, nor do I brutalize, and I do not drink.
But I have not managed to stop fighting for a single second.
I have managed to make rules that I follow:
I do not let myself win fights that I know I should lose
but it is not always easy to tell when I am right from when I am wrong.
And I can't manage to stop fighting, even while deciding.
There is a voice in my head that tells me that if I ever stop fighting
I can never again go home again.
But that is true no matter what I do.
that home is gone
the elm trees are long since cut for fuel
SO why fight?
Why fight, when the only person I really want to beat
has been insane, stupid and dying for years?
I seem to know nothing else.
with it's two giant elms on the top
and the rooms upstairs that gave some solace
because she was too lazy to climb the stairs
Everything was argument and fight
everything was on the edge of collapse
all the time
unending crisis after crisis
as she drank her way insane
I was trained to fight about everything
all the time
by a ruthless wordslinger
who backed it up with a wooden shoe
or a slap
or by kicking me in gut as I lay on the floor
trying to curl around her leg so she could not draw it back.
She tolerated being a mother until the day her daughter went away to college
and then she got rid of me.
First, she loaded me like a gun and shot me at my father
telling me that she might take me back if he said I had to go
but never just because I asked to come home.
And nothing in the world prepared him for what she had made me
and he was begging her to take me back in less than three months.
and I got what she told me I wanted: Her.
But if not a good mother, she was an excellent teacher
and she found that she was not winning the arguments,
not crushing me with her words,
then revelling in the impotence with which a child returns taunts.
She had sharpened me, and now I was starting to cut
and as her words could no longer beat me
it was hands, or sticks, or belts
and she knew I had to go before my patience for it ended
So off I went from the house on the hill
and she threw me out of the car at the private school
with a garbage bag full of clothes that had not fit in a year
a hundred dollars with which to buy textbooks
and an admonition to find somewhere else to stay for summer.
and it is, from this distance, my most shameful moment,
that as she drove off, I was weeping and begging to be allowed back.
I was 13
From the house on the hill to the castle on the hill
where nobody wanted to hurt me, fight me, beat me.
Everything changed, and I became insignificant
and I could not but hate insignificance
so I did the only thing I had ever been taught competently to do.
I fought.
I am 42. I have been married for half that time.
I do not hit, nor do I brutalize, and I do not drink.
But I have not managed to stop fighting for a single second.
I have managed to make rules that I follow:
I do not let myself win fights that I know I should lose
but it is not always easy to tell when I am right from when I am wrong.
And I can't manage to stop fighting, even while deciding.
There is a voice in my head that tells me that if I ever stop fighting
I can never again go home again.
But that is true no matter what I do.
that home is gone
the elm trees are long since cut for fuel
SO why fight?
Why fight, when the only person I really want to beat
has been insane, stupid and dying for years?
I seem to know nothing else.
Reanimate
Do I really look that scary?
It is just the way my face is made, son.
And it is just the stone I have carved my expressions out of for many years, to stay safe.
Now I find that the smile I show you has signs of granite hardness,
not the love that I wish to put there
not the respect and pride that I feel.
Your eyes remind me too much of what it was once like to feel joy
and let it creep into my features
to feel grief and sadness, and let my face cry
and looking on you now, in joy and in sadness
reminds my why I carved this granite face, these tearless stone eyes
because those who saw my tears wished, not to dry them as I wish to,
but to use them, to cause them,
to make joy into rage, to make happiness into tears for their own ends
and I could no longer stand it.
And with every glance I wish that never to happen to you
yet to prevent it, would I carve you a granite face, tearless stone eyes?
Or reanimate my own?
It is just the way my face is made, son.
And it is just the stone I have carved my expressions out of for many years, to stay safe.
Now I find that the smile I show you has signs of granite hardness,
not the love that I wish to put there
not the respect and pride that I feel.
Your eyes remind me too much of what it was once like to feel joy
and let it creep into my features
to feel grief and sadness, and let my face cry
and looking on you now, in joy and in sadness
reminds my why I carved this granite face, these tearless stone eyes
because those who saw my tears wished, not to dry them as I wish to,
but to use them, to cause them,
to make joy into rage, to make happiness into tears for their own ends
and I could no longer stand it.
And with every glance I wish that never to happen to you
yet to prevent it, would I carve you a granite face, tearless stone eyes?
Or reanimate my own?
Lady Dusk
For my muse, Valkyrie
The day is done and the night is coming
the lady of the dusk
whispering to me
and the silver-clad elfin wraith hovers
to summon the waiting wings of the raven
to smother the last of the light
and take me from here
forever.
She loves me with the wind on my bare skin
and the waves that wash the pain away
she shines the dark of night like a torch
and it’s pervading blackness washes my soul clean
of its need for the light
and free from the want of warmth.
Her skin against me is the cold touch
that wrings the last blush of that addicting sun
and it will never need the day again
and the rays of light will never reach this flesh.
Her touch is painfully cold
and her fingers trace
brings such exquisite frost
no warm breath can again bring thaw.
It would be my last wish to die in the arms of the night
and never again feel the warm rain
but it is not to be
and the dream soon draws to a finish
and the raven’s wings depart
and forever ends.
The dark figure clothed in moonlight
walking down the road of midnight
receding and taking my heart
and consuming my soul
and leaving me to face the coming dawn
with stolen heart
and eaten soul
The Sacrements - Ololuiqui
Vernal Equinox - 2003
I have been preparing for days
everything is so clean, so bright
the brew is in the silver goblet from which I first sipped freedom
Astaroth is the name I had engraved on it then.
I read it now, and wonder "Keeper of secrets, where have you gone?"
Ololiuqui and I are old friends
dancing together once a year for twenty-four years
He is the bludgeon of my sacrements,
without the guile of Ayahuasca,
or the spirograph visions of Salvia
Or the drunken revelling sociability of Wine and it's ilk.
Ololiuqui is the blackjack, the stone-headed mace,
the twelve-pound hammer with the word "clue" printed daintily on it's face
He is the oncoming train, the blunt-force trauma,
and the 800-pound gorilla knocking at the door.
Half this cup, and I am a happy, giggling idiot
All of it, and I get to confront Truth, and party with him. Wether I want to, or not.
The Thinking Half of my mind advises, wimp that he is, caution.
Mystic Half laughs, and compels me.
I have not danced the full dance for six years, and so much has happened.
A son, an injury, a disease, a slow death, all unresolved, unsettled.
Thinking Half thinks it is too much, the set and setting are aweful.
Trip when your mind is clean, he says, and be SAFE!
But the unsettled things are not settling, and Thinking Half can't settle them,
and, after all, he is a sacrement of exploration, divination and journeying.
I drink the full cup empty, and Thinking Half retreats, watching, concerned.
I am inside, in my temple, clothed in white, kneeling on a rich red satin pillow
surrounded by reds and golds
warm cinnamon aromas
immaculate, soft to the eye, the skin, and the spirit.
Ololuiqui walks a long road to get to me,
so I meditate for perhaps an hour, in repose
with Thinking Half murmering anxiety
Mystic Half waiting calmly
Sometimes he comes as vision, sending me pictures
And sometimes as an aural banquet
and sometimes as nightmare heart-palpitations
but he always comes with a point or a purpose or a message,
and he is always clear, which is why he is frequently unwelcome
for he dispells self deception with no lubricant, no foreplay, no banter.
He just rips the eyelids off and holds up the mirror.
I tried to welcome him without expectation
The respect due to any teacher, an open mind.
I must have failed, I must have expected something
Because I certainly didn't expect this.
No one expects the spanish inquisition! Thinking Half says, to distract me.
And he is there.
He has come as a knight, in chainmail,
with a broadsword the size of a fence post
and arms like tree trunks
and he shows up swinging.
I feel the blade bite deep into my neck, and through
and I see his mailed hand grab my head by the hair
and I watch my body drop away as the sword cleaves through
and I feel the pain of it.
I watch as he cleans the bloody sword on my pristine ritual garment
and I watch the red stain spread
as I, or what is left of me, drips.
As I look down on the newly headless me, I am consumed with anger
"HEY!" I shout at my illusory tormentor
"What the hell is this? I bring you here to -"
and as soon as I say it, I know.
Arrogance. Ololiqui is teaching me about arrogance.
He sheaths his sword and angles my bodiless head to look on his face,
and since arrogance is never far from me, I KNOW what I must see.
It has to be either Luke Skywalker, or myself,
and I am betting I will see my own face.
He laughs, and I look at his helmeted face, shaken,
for his voice is high and and light, unlike mine or Darth Vaders.
and i try to see his eyes through the visor with no luck,
and I am worried, now, because I have no idea.
The high, light voice cackles as it reads my mind and laughs.
The unknown, I think. It is showing me my fear of the unknown!
And again with the mind-reading and the cackling,
encouraging me to look past bad movies or sophomoric philosophy for answers.
I feel myself dying, and everything going white
and he throws open his visor
and I see the face of my 5 year old son
and I watch him watch me
and I feel a fear deeper than I have ever felt
as I wonder what he sees.
And the vision dissolves, having made it's point.
Ololiqui. Gotta love it.
I have been preparing for days
everything is so clean, so bright
the brew is in the silver goblet from which I first sipped freedom
Astaroth is the name I had engraved on it then.
I read it now, and wonder "Keeper of secrets, where have you gone?"
Ololiuqui and I are old friends
dancing together once a year for twenty-four years
He is the bludgeon of my sacrements,
without the guile of Ayahuasca,
or the spirograph visions of Salvia
Or the drunken revelling sociability of Wine and it's ilk.
Ololiuqui is the blackjack, the stone-headed mace,
the twelve-pound hammer with the word "clue" printed daintily on it's face
He is the oncoming train, the blunt-force trauma,
and the 800-pound gorilla knocking at the door.
Half this cup, and I am a happy, giggling idiot
All of it, and I get to confront Truth, and party with him. Wether I want to, or not.
The Thinking Half of my mind advises, wimp that he is, caution.
Mystic Half laughs, and compels me.
I have not danced the full dance for six years, and so much has happened.
A son, an injury, a disease, a slow death, all unresolved, unsettled.
Thinking Half thinks it is too much, the set and setting are aweful.
Trip when your mind is clean, he says, and be SAFE!
But the unsettled things are not settling, and Thinking Half can't settle them,
and, after all, he is a sacrement of exploration, divination and journeying.
I drink the full cup empty, and Thinking Half retreats, watching, concerned.
I am inside, in my temple, clothed in white, kneeling on a rich red satin pillow
surrounded by reds and golds
warm cinnamon aromas
immaculate, soft to the eye, the skin, and the spirit.
Ololuiqui walks a long road to get to me,
so I meditate for perhaps an hour, in repose
with Thinking Half murmering anxiety
Mystic Half waiting calmly
Sometimes he comes as vision, sending me pictures
And sometimes as an aural banquet
and sometimes as nightmare heart-palpitations
but he always comes with a point or a purpose or a message,
and he is always clear, which is why he is frequently unwelcome
for he dispells self deception with no lubricant, no foreplay, no banter.
He just rips the eyelids off and holds up the mirror.
I tried to welcome him without expectation
The respect due to any teacher, an open mind.
I must have failed, I must have expected something
Because I certainly didn't expect this.
No one expects the spanish inquisition! Thinking Half says, to distract me.
And he is there.
He has come as a knight, in chainmail,
with a broadsword the size of a fence post
and arms like tree trunks
and he shows up swinging.
I feel the blade bite deep into my neck, and through
and I see his mailed hand grab my head by the hair
and I watch my body drop away as the sword cleaves through
and I feel the pain of it.
I watch as he cleans the bloody sword on my pristine ritual garment
and I watch the red stain spread
as I, or what is left of me, drips.
As I look down on the newly headless me, I am consumed with anger
"HEY!" I shout at my illusory tormentor
"What the hell is this? I bring you here to -"
and as soon as I say it, I know.
Arrogance. Ololiqui is teaching me about arrogance.
He sheaths his sword and angles my bodiless head to look on his face,
and since arrogance is never far from me, I KNOW what I must see.
It has to be either Luke Skywalker, or myself,
and I am betting I will see my own face.
He laughs, and I look at his helmeted face, shaken,
for his voice is high and and light, unlike mine or Darth Vaders.
and i try to see his eyes through the visor with no luck,
and I am worried, now, because I have no idea.
The high, light voice cackles as it reads my mind and laughs.
The unknown, I think. It is showing me my fear of the unknown!
And again with the mind-reading and the cackling,
encouraging me to look past bad movies or sophomoric philosophy for answers.
I feel myself dying, and everything going white
and he throws open his visor
and I see the face of my 5 year old son
and I watch him watch me
and I feel a fear deeper than I have ever felt
as I wonder what he sees.
And the vision dissolves, having made it's point.
Ololiqui. Gotta love it.
Scream
I bummed a cigarette from a guy when I was in the ninth grade.
He gave me the wrong one
or he dosed me with PCP on purpose
either way.
I felt my heart stop
then start again, as tho kicked by a mule
and then stop, as if clenched in a huge cosmic fist
then start again in an adrenalized lightening thump
and over and over again
I felt my body two feet away
I looked at it as it rotted
in a gangrenous pestilent mass of flesh
I smelled the stink of the decay
and I was left with no physical part
I screamed,
and I kept screaming
and in large part, have been screaming that same scream
for 23 years,
waking in the night seeing myself rot
I saw him again, years later and years ago.
I smiled, and shook his hand
and broke his arm on the sidewalk.
It didn't help.
He gave me the wrong one
or he dosed me with PCP on purpose
either way.
I felt my heart stop
then start again, as tho kicked by a mule
and then stop, as if clenched in a huge cosmic fist
then start again in an adrenalized lightening thump
and over and over again
I felt my body two feet away
I looked at it as it rotted
in a gangrenous pestilent mass of flesh
I smelled the stink of the decay
and I was left with no physical part
I screamed,
and I kept screaming
and in large part, have been screaming that same scream
for 23 years,
waking in the night seeing myself rot
I saw him again, years later and years ago.
I smiled, and shook his hand
and broke his arm on the sidewalk.
It didn't help.
The Sacrements Kata
Turn left to face the dragon
my left arm becomes a fiery broadsword
that barely staves off the sulfur-reeking claw that would have rended my left leg
and forward quickly, as the dragon staggers
and my right fist, now made of granite, sends him reeling
the dragon has a friend
a centaur with a halbard, whistling through the air
to cut me in half at the waist
I hear it and look, then turn
and my right arm, now a katana, meets it's arc
and I push through the sparks of metal meeting metal
and my left arm is a lance, and she whinnies and retreats, golden hair flying
The golem is coming for me,
rising up from the clay of the earth
burning with anger and hate, it rushes
howling obscenities in a slow low earth voice
I counter it's thrust as I half-turn to meet it's attack,
and rush it, meeting earth with anger
three strikes, three steps, and the primal scream
and it disolves into dirt
the centaur bitch is back and angry,
and again the halbard swings to bisect me
I turn, and half again
I take it on my wrist, encased in steel
and forward again, thudding heavily between the centaur's breasts
and again she staggers, and cries for help
and the dragon obliges, whipping it's reptilian tail low
not fast enough, thank god, as I whip around, and my right arm descends to meet it
and a simple forward thrust buys time by pushing him back
because the dirtmonster has risen again
I kick myself for being too gentle last time
I circle in a halfturn and drive my naked left fist downward
into it's slime-clay interior
Forward, three strikes penetrating into it's unliving depths
and this time my scream is of satisfaction as it falls into dust
and I allow myself a smile. One down.
The dragon has recovered and charges in, far too fast
and I know the blow will be heavy, so I spin to gain momentum
turn and a half, and my left arm is a lightsaber
it's teeth splay out, severed,
and I step into it's body hitting hard and forcing it back,
where it can bleed in peace, because I need the room.
She is alone now, the centaur, and scared,
but my back is turned, so she calculates
and takes a chance, rolls the dice
but I hear the movement of the halbard and spin
almost casually flicking it away with my right fist downward
and I step up to her, leaving her alive, but gasping
with my left fist in her guts
I look down and see the used-to-be-a-golem dust,
and I stand erect again, melee over.
I bow, my task complete
my left arm becomes a fiery broadsword
that barely staves off the sulfur-reeking claw that would have rended my left leg
and forward quickly, as the dragon staggers
and my right fist, now made of granite, sends him reeling
the dragon has a friend
a centaur with a halbard, whistling through the air
to cut me in half at the waist
I hear it and look, then turn
and my right arm, now a katana, meets it's arc
and I push through the sparks of metal meeting metal
and my left arm is a lance, and she whinnies and retreats, golden hair flying
The golem is coming for me,
rising up from the clay of the earth
burning with anger and hate, it rushes
howling obscenities in a slow low earth voice
I counter it's thrust as I half-turn to meet it's attack,
and rush it, meeting earth with anger
three strikes, three steps, and the primal scream
and it disolves into dirt
the centaur bitch is back and angry,
and again the halbard swings to bisect me
I turn, and half again
I take it on my wrist, encased in steel
and forward again, thudding heavily between the centaur's breasts
and again she staggers, and cries for help
and the dragon obliges, whipping it's reptilian tail low
not fast enough, thank god, as I whip around, and my right arm descends to meet it
and a simple forward thrust buys time by pushing him back
because the dirtmonster has risen again
I kick myself for being too gentle last time
I circle in a halfturn and drive my naked left fist downward
into it's slime-clay interior
Forward, three strikes penetrating into it's unliving depths
and this time my scream is of satisfaction as it falls into dust
and I allow myself a smile. One down.
The dragon has recovered and charges in, far too fast
and I know the blow will be heavy, so I spin to gain momentum
turn and a half, and my left arm is a lightsaber
it's teeth splay out, severed,
and I step into it's body hitting hard and forcing it back,
where it can bleed in peace, because I need the room.
She is alone now, the centaur, and scared,
but my back is turned, so she calculates
and takes a chance, rolls the dice
but I hear the movement of the halbard and spin
almost casually flicking it away with my right fist downward
and I step up to her, leaving her alive, but gasping
with my left fist in her guts
I look down and see the used-to-be-a-golem dust,
and I stand erect again, melee over.
I bow, my task complete
The Sacrements - Mourning
I stood aside and watched her cry
a deep, wracking cry
a lament that seemed to include
the whole of creation in mourning
"I wasn't nothing before him
and now I'm nothing again"
she moaned, swaying softly
over and over
until all the black-suited mourners had gone
and it was just she and I
and a coffin-sized patch of dirt
in the stone-pocked irregular meadow
"wasn't nothing, nothing, nothing"
she said, gaining ferocity
the moan changing to a grunt
then to a yell
and finally to a scream
and I watched her hands clench to fists
and her knees buckle, as she sank
and hit the ground in time with her shouted fury
on her knees
she genuflected anger and hate
her arms, and her tears, hitting the fresh grave
until she had nothing left.
She melted down
and stretched herself across the grave
and tried, vainly, to die with him.
And I had to turn away and hate myself
because I could do nothing.
nothing.
a deep, wracking cry
a lament that seemed to include
the whole of creation in mourning
"I wasn't nothing before him
and now I'm nothing again"
she moaned, swaying softly
over and over
until all the black-suited mourners had gone
and it was just she and I
and a coffin-sized patch of dirt
in the stone-pocked irregular meadow
"wasn't nothing, nothing, nothing"
she said, gaining ferocity
the moan changing to a grunt
then to a yell
and finally to a scream
and I watched her hands clench to fists
and her knees buckle, as she sank
and hit the ground in time with her shouted fury
on her knees
she genuflected anger and hate
her arms, and her tears, hitting the fresh grave
until she had nothing left.
She melted down
and stretched herself across the grave
and tried, vainly, to die with him.
And I had to turn away and hate myself
because I could do nothing.
nothing.
Bletherous Redultatude
I defrobulized her,
but it was too late, the damage had been done,
and nothing I could do whould make the priloprop stop klelunkling.
We wept as she frobbed, gilwhackily.
the elpler-splogue bespracheted the morgravinder
but to no avail, because her melenphytoc brusbander odburrulled,
and none of the frabjons were trained in the ways of norplicks.
The defrobulizing was eccemidic, but softly so,
and her brouebabs rose and fell and rose and fell,
and became hicklinjipy with the strain
but the bribs of her impinder did not return,
and we mourned and freeflined,
while the sprival light sank slowly from our sight.
The defrobulizing continued, much to her extreme norbutrer.
She bagan to thrash violently, then she smarmled on the cruiplod
and begged forgiveness for her brimundling.
we glivened her, as she had asked us to,
but she then refused to plorn,
so we glivened her again.
On the third, she wraksplinted, and knew no more.
The frobinjay and the norplicks formed a line about us,
gleegily replerting the entire, vast ungulanimy.
"It Falls To US!" he shouted,
and the pleeving of the groschnacks
became even more groobed.
I defrobulized her, tho she wanted it not,
but the brusbanders,
the small brusbanders,
must spilf all the rells.
So we sat, forlorn and blugaggled.
I splonted her, and she splonted me.
but the megleg was too palfruous
and our passion, mingled and thrensed together
bleered us both through the glupless night.
Sklergs quefrelled through the dark trull
leaving bits of it smooming on the carpets
so that all who schinted there felt the creplerous waufgham.
Now, in this place, glivening us together under blufrand,
the creplerousness is bethriven. And had bethrived.
in the end, her plabulousness churminked.
Finally, and we all agreed.
our salten tears befriddled the path,
and we norblered it no more.
Norblered no more.
It was the bleen, it was always just the bleen
but it was too late, the damage had been done,
and nothing I could do whould make the priloprop stop klelunkling.
We wept as she frobbed, gilwhackily.
the elpler-splogue bespracheted the morgravinder
but to no avail, because her melenphytoc brusbander odburrulled,
and none of the frabjons were trained in the ways of norplicks.
The defrobulizing was eccemidic, but softly so,
and her brouebabs rose and fell and rose and fell,
and became hicklinjipy with the strain
but the bribs of her impinder did not return,
and we mourned and freeflined,
while the sprival light sank slowly from our sight.
The defrobulizing continued, much to her extreme norbutrer.
She bagan to thrash violently, then she smarmled on the cruiplod
and begged forgiveness for her brimundling.
we glivened her, as she had asked us to,
but she then refused to plorn,
so we glivened her again.
On the third, she wraksplinted, and knew no more.
The frobinjay and the norplicks formed a line about us,
gleegily replerting the entire, vast ungulanimy.
"It Falls To US!" he shouted,
and the pleeving of the groschnacks
became even more groobed.
I defrobulized her, tho she wanted it not,
but the brusbanders,
the small brusbanders,
must spilf all the rells.
So we sat, forlorn and blugaggled.
I splonted her, and she splonted me.
but the megleg was too palfruous
and our passion, mingled and thrensed together
bleered us both through the glupless night.
Sklergs quefrelled through the dark trull
leaving bits of it smooming on the carpets
so that all who schinted there felt the creplerous waufgham.
Now, in this place, glivening us together under blufrand,
the creplerousness is bethriven. And had bethrived.
in the end, her plabulousness churminked.
Finally, and we all agreed.
our salten tears befriddled the path,
and we norblered it no more.
Norblered no more.
It was the bleen, it was always just the bleen
Sacrements - The Student
She's still afraid of me
after ten years.
I think I have taken her places she has not wanted to go
but I did not coerce, I hope
(subtle coercion is invisible and maybe even involuntary)
Still, fear.
It is the first sight, I think.
seeing me was always somehow jarring to her.
It was she who taught me (tho she might not know it)
the habit of sitting down as low as possible
as soon as possible
when discussing anything more significant than the weather
because she interpreted my mildest passionate raving as an attack.
For her, and just for her, I tried to master my intensity
move slowly
speak ...... less stridently.
She knows me very well.
I haven't the slightest idea how well I know her.
Which figures.
Still, the fear.
It has been there since I was 16
and Kip's parents told him I was evil,
and to stop hanging around with me.
I have never understood this.
It seems to have followed me everywhere
Now, I am fat and sick, a physical threat to nobody,
but the fear is still there.
and I still don't understand it.
There is nothing scary here.
By their standards, yeah, I am evil.
I think for myself, and I don't accept a dogma, any dogma.
but I have always been honest and open
about what I want, who I am, and what I'm doing.
I might not be a very good teacher, but I don't understand why I am scary.
If she is scared of me, maybe I should be too?
Self-doubt sucks. Can I go back to being a relentlessly arrogant prick now?
after ten years.
I think I have taken her places she has not wanted to go
but I did not coerce, I hope
(subtle coercion is invisible and maybe even involuntary)
Still, fear.
It is the first sight, I think.
seeing me was always somehow jarring to her.
It was she who taught me (tho she might not know it)
the habit of sitting down as low as possible
as soon as possible
when discussing anything more significant than the weather
because she interpreted my mildest passionate raving as an attack.
For her, and just for her, I tried to master my intensity
move slowly
speak ...... less stridently.
She knows me very well.
I haven't the slightest idea how well I know her.
Which figures.
Still, the fear.
It has been there since I was 16
and Kip's parents told him I was evil,
and to stop hanging around with me.
I have never understood this.
It seems to have followed me everywhere
Now, I am fat and sick, a physical threat to nobody,
but the fear is still there.
and I still don't understand it.
There is nothing scary here.
By their standards, yeah, I am evil.
I think for myself, and I don't accept a dogma, any dogma.
but I have always been honest and open
about what I want, who I am, and what I'm doing.
I might not be a very good teacher, but I don't understand why I am scary.
If she is scared of me, maybe I should be too?
Self-doubt sucks. Can I go back to being a relentlessly arrogant prick now?
The Cut
As the blade touched my face,
and I felt the cut
we climaxed together,
both trying to control our movements
vainly
and she writhed as she pulled the razor downward
and I was transfixed as I watched her orgasm continue
and the cut finished, she surrendered control
and lost herself in it, moaning
and she bent to the cut, and licked away the blood,
and she went limp against me
My eyes opened into the other space
and I saw it, the energy of our working
flowing about us,
and I wove it around us in a braid,
her strand, and mine, and the red flowing strand,
a continuous trickle of astral blood
binding us together loosely
and we touched,
at every point
body,
mind.
all.
and I felt the cut
we climaxed together,
both trying to control our movements
vainly
and she writhed as she pulled the razor downward
and I was transfixed as I watched her orgasm continue
and the cut finished, she surrendered control
and lost herself in it, moaning
and she bent to the cut, and licked away the blood,
and she went limp against me
My eyes opened into the other space
and I saw it, the energy of our working
flowing about us,
and I wove it around us in a braid,
her strand, and mine, and the red flowing strand,
a continuous trickle of astral blood
binding us together loosely
and we touched,
at every point
body,
mind.
all.
The Sylph
Shalerock Falls, 1977
I could barely see it in the mist and spray
as it sailed in a leisurely circle around the whirlpool
on soft grey batlike wings
barely roiling the mist.
I rubbed my eyes, and looked around.
nobody else saw it.
I tried to get closer, but the rocks were slippery
and my sister had a worried look
so, frustrated, I found a dry spot, and watched the whirlpool,
while being bathed in the mist of the waterfall above.
It took a while, maybe an hour, but I saw it again
delicately circling
and I heard it's voice, soft and deep
and it sang in continuous notes, only gradually rising and falling
in sympathy with the sound of the waterfall
The gray, frail bat wings that bore it
dripped mist as it circled, like fine sprays of morning rain
and it's song seemed to vibrate in my chest, so low and soft it was
and I felt it's joy in simply being, it's pleasure carried by it's deep soft voice
and I felt my heart slow, my breathing ease, and my anger at life,
just for a moment,
recede.
I began to cry softly with the beauty of it,
and as the first tear dripped from my cheek,
it looked at me, and hovered in place briefly.
It changed it's song to one of fear and shock,
like a startled yelp
and I felt it look at me as tho I was a strange creature,
the likes of which it had never seen
and I felt it want to flee,
and I knew it could not, for it was as tied to that mist
as a cornstalk is tied to the earth
There were many other people present,
but it saw only me, and only I saw it.
But I terrified it, and i had no desire to cause it distress
so I moved away
and whatever it was that connected us was broken
and I knew my life had changed forever
and wondered if it's had, too.
I could barely see it in the mist and spray
as it sailed in a leisurely circle around the whirlpool
on soft grey batlike wings
barely roiling the mist.
I rubbed my eyes, and looked around.
nobody else saw it.
I tried to get closer, but the rocks were slippery
and my sister had a worried look
so, frustrated, I found a dry spot, and watched the whirlpool,
while being bathed in the mist of the waterfall above.
It took a while, maybe an hour, but I saw it again
delicately circling
and I heard it's voice, soft and deep
and it sang in continuous notes, only gradually rising and falling
in sympathy with the sound of the waterfall
The gray, frail bat wings that bore it
dripped mist as it circled, like fine sprays of morning rain
and it's song seemed to vibrate in my chest, so low and soft it was
and I felt it's joy in simply being, it's pleasure carried by it's deep soft voice
and I felt my heart slow, my breathing ease, and my anger at life,
just for a moment,
recede.
I began to cry softly with the beauty of it,
and as the first tear dripped from my cheek,
it looked at me, and hovered in place briefly.
It changed it's song to one of fear and shock,
like a startled yelp
and I felt it look at me as tho I was a strange creature,
the likes of which it had never seen
and I felt it want to flee,
and I knew it could not, for it was as tied to that mist
as a cornstalk is tied to the earth
There were many other people present,
but it saw only me, and only I saw it.
But I terrified it, and i had no desire to cause it distress
so I moved away
and whatever it was that connected us was broken
and I knew my life had changed forever
and wondered if it's had, too.
Denial
It's a beautiful day out,
and I am in.
Cat and Crow are out
at a town fair, and he is meeting animals
petting things
experiencing a world of
odors and sights, emotions.
I am in. Surfing a sea of knowledge,
packing my brain with information I will never use
because it is fun, and because I can.
and bacause I like to breath.
Out is death, in is life.
Cat will guide him, watch him,
and Crow will see things, learn things,
absorb the world, a piece at a time
He will jump up and down with the thrill of the new
his face will light with joy as the world introduces itself to him
And I will write poems,
and refuse to look out the window
and refuse to ask myself why.
Sometimes denial can be a useful tool.
and I am in.
Cat and Crow are out
at a town fair, and he is meeting animals
petting things
experiencing a world of
odors and sights, emotions.
I am in. Surfing a sea of knowledge,
packing my brain with information I will never use
because it is fun, and because I can.
and bacause I like to breath.
Out is death, in is life.
Cat will guide him, watch him,
and Crow will see things, learn things,
absorb the world, a piece at a time
He will jump up and down with the thrill of the new
his face will light with joy as the world introduces itself to him
And I will write poems,
and refuse to look out the window
and refuse to ask myself why.
Sometimes denial can be a useful tool.
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