LIFE IS A FUCKED UP DAYTIME SYMPHONY, EAT IT

I’m tired of acting like there’s

Something wrong with me,

While I scoop out wisdom

From dead-lands and babies hands,

petals, Datura.

Like subtle nuggets 

To unravel false worlds

Of puer and patterns of pathology

Mind wounds

I feel like all fanciful

Cards reversed, 

Punctured possibilities

Of healing from scattering

Sadness that eats me alive

Every once in a season I am deep

I’m a wound, Mercury, mercenary

A nameless merit of muse and bane

Bell jar times. Deep rest depression

Runs in my family like

Wine runs in Christ’s body,

Something that’s magic manifest

But makes my whole world

Drunk on possibility of saving grace

While distracting me from the 

Necessary dieta of clear sight

A sick king gets sicker

And I want for insight

That cuts out the delusion

Like a knife with my ire I concur a fire

To cure myself clean of this and of that

Obligated incantations of what modernity

Has sold us

In a pick-pocket thievery and called it

Life-making

I want to marry Saint Francis and move

To the woods and make poems and make love

I wake up in the morning

I wake up mourning and think

Where my mind tunnels to is 

A waste of this strange grace 

And this world is a waste a

Caste-ridden cataract of 

Goddess’s profane cow, an 

Underworld Animalia 

This country’s well is poisoning my water

Belligerent bouillon unworthy of my time

An ancestors mask has been hunting me

Haunting me

Contempt that has caught many in its web

I curtail its caustic curses with my tongues

And it chokes on its own Omens

And is taken by an Angel

That is a Snake, singing its serpent song

And bringing Peace to the here-living

With my Poetry I banish the bat shit bitch back

To Her grave, groaning, Bleating Belly of

False Christ Curtailing my Hoofs

And trying to Highjack my Juice, inept

And feckless, a cock-less cross 

The wisdom of my seasons of sadness

Are clean and curing like the desert 

Where what isn’t essential must die

Let it die

You will not take from me any more, 

When I am edge-walking and Faeric

You will not take any more,

A Jealous Jesus with no teeth and

Or animal Eyes to move in these

Spaces, un-useful and moaning

I have always been this way. I have

Walked with Hermes for centuries 

Stoking cold light fires in the underworld

Psychopomp and poet, making love to the

All father as the days grow longer while chariots

Move wayward to heaven

I deepen and lengthen

God’s holy winter moon,

Devoted to Beloved and in the 

Blasted lands, the bloated underbelly

Singing

What sound does Love make?

What sound does Love make?

Women will know when I am naming

Men have forsaken us

The deep wail that is disturbing to hear

Chasm, rises and it upchucks this poem

On winter mornings when I am sure Death

Itself is Hunger

Licking these Petals clean

LIFE IS A FUCKED UP DAYTIME

SYMPHONY,

EAT IT

I’m tired of acting like there’s

Something wrong with me,

While I scoop out wisdom from

petals, Datura.

Like subtle nuggets 

To unravel false worlds

Of puer and patterns of pathology

Mind wounds

I feel like all fanciful

Cards reversed, 

Punctured possibilities

Of healing from scattering

Sadness that eats me alive

Every once in a season I am deep

I’m a wound, Mercury, mercenary

A nameless merit of muse and bane

Bell jar times. Deep rest depression

Runs in my family like

Wine runs in Christ’s body,

Something that’s magic manifest

But makes my whole world

Drunk on possibility of saving grace

While distracting me from the 

Necessary dieta of clear sight

A sick king gets sicker

And I want for insight

That cuts out the delusion

Like a knife with my ire I conjure a fire

To cure myself clean of this and of that

Obligated incantations of what modernity

Has sold us

In a pick-pocket thievery and called it

Life-making

I want to marry Saint Francis and move

To the woods and make poems and make love

I wake up in the morning

I wake up mourning and think

Where my mind tunnels to is 

A waste of this strange grace 

And this world is a waste a

Caste-ridden cataract of 

Goddess’s profane cow, an 

Underworld Animalia 

This country’s well is poisoning my water

Belligerent bouillon unworthy of my time

An ancestors mask has been hunting me

Haunting me

Contempt that has caught many in its web

I curtail its caustic curses with my tongues

And it chokes on its own Omens

And is taken by an Angel

That is a Snake, singing its serpent song

And bringing a real Peace to the here-living

With my Poetry I banish the bat shit bitch back

To Her grave, groaning, Bleating Belly of

False Christ Curtailing my Hoofs

And trying to Highjack my Juice, inept

And feckless, a cock-less cross 

The wisdom of my seasons of sadness

Are clean and curing like the desert 

Where what isn’t essential must die

Let it die

You will not take from me any more, 

When I am edge-walking and Faeric

You will not take any more,

A Jealous Jesus with no teeth and

Or animal Eyes to move in these

Spaces, un-useful and moaning

I have always been this way. I have

Walked with Hermes for centuries 

Stoking cold light fires in the underworld

Psychopomp and poet, making love to the

All father as the days grow longer while chariots

Move wayward to heaven

Saturn’s Harvest, the first and last

Are crushed at the first gate

Fate worse than death

And I kiss them, and take their breath

I deepen and lengthen

God’s holy winter moon,

Devoted to Beloved and in the 

Blasted lands, the bloated underbelly

Singing

What sound does Love make?

What sound does Love make?

Women will know when I am naming

Men have forsaken us

I am medicine, brutal and bitter

The deep wail that is disturbing to hear

Chasm, rises and it upchucks this poem

On winter mornings when I am sure Death

Itself is Hunger

Licking these Petals clean