A Ritual of Three: A Magic for Happy, Revitalized Spirits
An opening of our ritual minds: I am ready for magic to be done upon me. Hear that, all you good witches of the world?…
Thoughts
thoughts – some from days gone by, some current
Oh, Baba Yaga: A Good Score Is Between 40 and 60
I love that my soul is in ten sweeping universes as we speak. I love that however terrible forty-five minutes can go, a weekend approaches. With dancing and ill, malformed, delighted wiggling and sweet wine. I love that there is purple hair dye in my bathroom calling me. I love that silk robe that seems to make the world on my shoulders feel escapable by parachute. I love the kind whispers saying the kind words, all done as if we’re in a film noir. I love that I saved myself. I love that I knew what to do and did it. I love that I am willing to throw myself into the fire and burn myself to bones for a good idea. I love that piercing eye.
The Strid
It would be a dangerous thing. Dangerous in that it would convince me, perhaps convince others who might take me as an object lesson, that…
Heliotrope
What I need and want to write about these days is not our best china, put out only for company. It is vacuous, dropped sentence-ridden, whirling dervishes, mean and sad, and hopeful and bracing. It is Maria at the start of the Sound of Music, just feeling herself in the air. Both the good and the ill in equal measure.
Imago Fabulae
Aloneness is not weakness or bravery. It just is. It is a state of self that exists in me now regardless of how many people I share a room or a drink with. It exists in me even when I share and recognize it in others. Even beyond logic. I often crave it even as I’m experiencing it.
It Ain’t Fiji
Short skirt, long jacket or Glinda the Good Fairy. That never the twain shall meet. I think this is wrong. I think the twain meet right at the intersection of my spine and shoulders. I think within me is the origin of universes. Soft, spongy, intersecting galaxies.
Silver Mote
That is the lesson in all of this. You have your window. Whatever it is. However long that you’ve been allotted. For all of it. For your passions, your hates, your learning, your feasting, your rock star idolatry. And as situated and stone-bound as you may feel, fate can swirl you up and away you go, onto your new, juicy adventure and all of this, grand and horrific and sublime and stupid as it is, goes away.
Over Chamomile
Your scar captivates me, the soft bridge on your flexing, fleshy, whipped cream arm, the scar from falling that interminable distance from the apple tree bough’s own break to the ground. I know that much. What captivated you there? Dragged you like a bonded prisoner into heights unknown. Made you taste danger like sharp, unripened blackberries.
Hard Livin’ in Bitch City
So mad they have chase me, they have to catch me, hold me down to screw my jaws shut and then I want to scream so hard I pull the wires apart like some kind of maniac. Break out of there like metal is paper. Like Aeolian gusts are taking hold of my throat. Banshees’ll need earplugs. Like I want to break out of a straitjacket and roam the streets howling and kicking soft things in their faces.
At the End of the Day (For Peter)
It feels somehow, at 11:30 p.m. like you are sitting on the day’s windowsill as the earthly set designers change the scenes around you. Draw in a tree and drape blue and purple leaves on its arms, pull out a curtain of evening sky and stud it with zirconia, paint the middle distance until it pulls the eye into infinity.