(Image Attribution: Elijah’s firey ascent into heaven. Огненное восхождение Ильи-пророка в небеса. Pskov School, 16th Century PD-US)

Thucydides Ascending

As I sat in meditation,
thinking of my life in bondage,
in an instant he descended
with mad flapping on my shoulder.

The Raven King, large for his kind.
My full effort for his perching.
Bearing message on some paper
he was on a purposed mission.
Even though I wasn’t starving,
was directed by Apollo.

Asked permission, then I took it,
from his beak, the folded letter.
It was Chalm’s, same kind of paper
that he kept on kitchen table,
always handy, at the ready.
In his scrawling script he wrote me,
words of hope that I share with you:

“Roland, I have reached my limit
and the universe is calling.
I would fly to resurrection.
With the ravens flying with me,
revel in my exultation.
Would you witness me in passing
through the air in cart of fire,
drawn by flying, flaming horses?
Blessings be upon your living,
trusting in your righteous mission
that the universe commences,
and enables, its intention.
You’re a vessel, take my message
to your brothers, from the ether.
Witness ascent to the heavens?
If you do, a double portion
of my spirit come upon you,
will invest you with great power
and whatever power lacking,
there is compense in your purpose.
If I see you looking skyward
from the ground that’s underneath me,
I will cast my magick headgear
from the side of flaming chariot.
It’s bright red, you’ll never miss it.
Catch it in your hand while falling.
It will be your magick totem.
Not for you alone but many!
Farewell, brother, I do love you.
Never fear, I will be with you
in my spirit ever after.”

As I read his final writing,
I at once formed my intention.
I would hurry to the valley
where it was that last I saw him.
So I ran, my knee was aching,
but I had to see him flying.
I remembered secret passage
hewn in rock straight through the mountain,
and the raven kept on leading
so I only had to follow.
I kept breathing by the lungful.
Not his cap but exhalations:
if I missed the magick headgear,
from Chalm’s breath, possess his pneuma.

As I ran into the valley,
in an instant, saw him flying.
Golden carriage drawn by horses,
from a battle he was leaving.
Chariot of fire burning,
but the flames did no consuming.
As he drove the horses upwards,
saw him lean out o’er the railing.
On his head, I saw it clearly,
its cone top was pointing forward.
It was red, he did remove it,
and he dropped it from the carriage.

There was little wind resistance
and it dropped straight from the heavens.
I continued with my running,
like a player with a fly ball.
Didn’t think that I would catch it.
At last instant with my diving,
my great effort in the jumping,
it was almost supernatural.
With Thucydides was flying,
but my journey always downwards
or at best was horizontal.

Hilocometoot

Have you heard of a Hilocometoot?
(Pronounced “high-low-come-toot”.)
That special beast, the place where you must go to see one:
you must journey to your mind.

“Did you read in it the papers, T.H.,
they spotted one out west of town!”
Unsuspecting strangers, he would ask in total seriousness.
Red-faced while overhearing, must suppress my tell-tale smirk!
And he in fact would go so far as to commence a sketch!
Not first a graphic artist, would create a crude abstraction,
with specific motions. Still possess some of these drawings
that he drew with his own hand,
and reproduced it once by my own hand.
I have drawn a Hilocometoot!
Copied to you with this poem.
Even skeptics would believe his tale.
Mike’s joking was convincing.
His special marks, the proud, denied their lack of knowledge
of this creature that Mike’s dad did conjure clean from his imagination.
We would laugh and laugh at their absurd pretension.

Here is a ticket to the zoo, I hand it to you now,
take it, completely free, but you must listen to my words,
comprising breath and modulation of vibrations
infused with meaning, massive processors housed inside our skulls.
My cannabinoid receptors fully charged with rocket fuel.
I tell you of Hilocometoot, but acknowledge this up front:
comedic talent lacking, but I have a great desire,
and am losing inhibitions.
Become a magick actor, would channel them in secret séance,
men who passed just for your entertainment
if through my possession you might be moved
to start to listen to the stories you can tell,
the ones that move your heart and mind and groin.
Invite me to the zoo in your imagination.

His father took him and his brother too,
to zoo in father’s mind,
with words at bedtime, spoken sweetly to his sons.
Lights in room have dimmed.
Illuminated by a single lamp upon the nightstand.
I do have pictures, paintings that reflect
what I imagine of this creature.

I wear Raymond’s ring upon my pinkie.
The man who gave a special gift to me
in Mike, of course, but through him too.
The best, I would suppose, this story of a beast
most rare and imaginary.
Like Chupacabra or Sasquatch,
but this one, more of a cross
between ostrich and velociraptor.

At the moon, would howl a lonely howl
in the dry, west Texas nights.
Maybe like the whistle of a train?
Raymond for a time lived as a hobo,
and looked out from his seat on boxcar threshold,
rolling through the moon-lit landscape,
travelling to see his love, Mike’s mom, Miss Kitty,
imagining that he may have seen one
dart beneath the cactus.

I peer into the past and what then would I see?
What then would appear before me but this beast?!
Would channel this man through his ring,
I wear it now, would turn it twice
and conjure up a secret spell myself
to draw into the light this creature that retreated once again
into the cactus, fleeing from my probing sight!
I would display Hilocometoot to you,
from within my special zoo!!
Invite you in, I will describe
just as Mike’s dad did to him
and to his older brother, Robert.
These brothers, I see my sons in their two faces,
photos of Mike and Bobby when they were young.

My sons know of Hilocometoot.
My older son knows better.
My younger son, not grasped it yet.
I guess became an older man before the age of one.
Doesn’t hunger for the stories,
but I always will be present.
When those pangs might tear through stomach into heart
and move him thus as I move now.
Would reach out to them somehow, love them,
just as I loved Mike and Bobby,
and their father through them,
though I never met him.
Just as I do love my father,
and I know him quite directly.

This bedtime story Raymond told them,
imaginations invigorated for the sweetest dreams.
Pecking ostrich head made out of howling puppet hand,
with fingers joined together,
with glee would tickle each boy’s neck
and make them laugh, and love their father dearly.

Mike loved his father, I know that of a fact.
Just as I would love my sons (and daughters), so did Raymond love his boys.

Just as Mike was loved by his own father,
I am deeply loved by mine.

Secret Yoga

Would you teach me of your yoga?
How much would you charge me?
I want to learn your secret yoga.
Would you charge my soul?
Not too large a price to pay.
Would sign that contract right away.
Give me a pen, open a vein,
to access ink that I would use
to write this poem to you.
A gift of words of how I long
to join with you in secret sharing,
or at least, together in our common breath,
fuel that would feed our constant motion.

Joining Spells

Once paid to write the spells of joining.
Now do commence to write my own spells.
Not spells of joining in that manner,
in the manner of some partners
joining up with one another
in a business endeavor,
but the joining I would share with you.

If I write them, two outcomes may result:
one, that when you come to me and would endeavor
to explore with me, then I will give you
these words written to you in anticipation.
Yes, a secret spell that worked!

But if you don’t,
don’t know that I will approach you once again,
or if I did, it would be later,
at a time when it would be less hurried.

What was it that she wrote,
she said? I hang on every word
that one may give me apprehension
regarding her intentions.

If you don’t come to me,
I must accept it because
what can I do?
You can’t make a person love you.

All I can do is keep writing spells.
More words written that won’t be read
by anyone except the spirits
that do linger by my shoulder.
They can’t read my mind
but they hunger for the stories
and they read the words I write them.
By now they know me well and
would anticipate my writing.
When I fall silent, they do recognize
that they must make a choice.
No time for hearing anymore,
but now for reading.
When they would see me leaving,
a decision they must make.
Would they come with me
hoping to hear the few words I might speak?
Or do they stay and read them,
but only those that are written on this one page.
For the spirits can’t move matter,
they can’t even turn a page,
and so their reading always incomplete,
always wanting for the finish,
and the beginning, and eventually they don’t bother.

Baby Dancing

One theory of the reason,
what was it then that brought you here?

It was that early trauma
that we all might have endured.
When you heard the music beating,
from a very early age.
You would start to move your body
in involuntary fashion,
scientifically proven
intrinsic in babies generally.
Not to Mozart do they respond
but to EDM, and held on mother’s lap,
they start movin’ to the rhythm,
would move and shake their entire bodies.
They do respond accordingly.

Some mothers might get nervous
suspicious of the baby dancing,
an auspicious sign of Satan,
that the dancing then is evil.

When he was a little baby,
this was his initial trauma,
when he starting baby dancing,
his mother would constrain him,
and would scold him thinking wrongly
that she saved her son from Satan.
What she really did instead then
was condition inhibition.

Devil’s Jubilee

Don my dark glasses in the shade.
The darkness is that which I crave.
I would conspire with the night
that I ascribe unto the light.
I am a censor of the dead.
Their cries are silenced, and instead,
the silence deafens, in their place,
no hope for freedom, grace erased.
But not because it’s really gone.
Those who yet live sing that old song,
its meaning drained from overuse.
“Amazing . . . “, hackneyed, yes, but true.
Like I would warn you from your fate,
that you might change before too late?!
Your soul is what I would possess.
It’s mine! I know you won’t confess.
You are too proud! Deny, like me,
creation is reality.
It’s a mirage, what you must know,
it disappears and then you go,
to your reward in hell with me
to be as nothing you were meant to be.
I will welcome you with open arms.
These words that sound like false alarms
unto your ears, you needn’t worry,
’til it’s too late, then you’ll be sorry.

I Miss You

Expression, will you bring relief?
My only hope is measured by a depth of ink
inside a well, encased inside a pen.
The well that fills with blood inside my heart, encased inside my chest.

Combine now, blood and ink upon this page!
I would command you as I do the wind!
It does my bidding for I would know a secret spell.
The wind, the blood, the ink, my spirit, I would command it too,
but like my heart is like a well,
then my spirit likened to a bird.
All things are like some other things,
absurdist similes and metaphors
that no one understands but you.

The whole point of this exercise:
to write a spell that I could cast,
a certain guaranty,
that none of what I write is ever gutless.
Never fails to pack a punch, or pierce the darkness,
or the light, as you would pick your poison.
Like a dagger that would rend the curtain to two bits.
My words may sting but knives might be used
for other arts than stabbing.

Put a drain into my heart,
my first words spoken unto me.
My blood, no more contained but mixed with ink,
and writ large upon this page.
Now spoken to the ether, and now born upon the wind.
The daggers, blood and water, wells and birds and wind.
I would write of all these things
just seeking for relief from the pain of missing you.

Temptation

I think I hear you calling.
I would tune into that channel
that the desperate have on pre-set.
When I need a special comfort,
we create a real connection.
A strong link that can’t be broken.
You would join me in that union.
Join my member to a demon.

No way to prove that who I hear
is really you and isn’t me.
All a matter of perception.
What you prefer: insanity
induced by loneliness or frenzy?
Or rather, boredom on the one hand, and terror on the other?

This dilemma has long cow horns,
that move dangerously when he shakes his head.
Would poke your eyes out with the sharpened tips.
The right or left, when you go shooting,
you might miss it. Then again
you do well to hold the reins,
but hold them loosely for the shaking and the poking
should remain minimally unhindered.

That massive beast, the universe,
will have its way. Your reins are but a flimsy handle
made of a substance, the viscosity of which
is assayed to ascertain fertility.

The moment’s ripe, so seize it.
You may offend. Can you achieve
while still avoiding gross offense?
The audacious never ask permission.
Lust after the unpardonable sin.
Don’t think of a snake.
See, you disobeyed me!
Every passion, just as he did,
you would know them, too, but much more deeply.

Temptation, not to be avoided, but indulged.

For Every Rose That Dies (Annotated Verse)

For every rose that dies, another one comes alive.
Every dream you dream is a felt frequency.
Hold between your lips, your tongue.
What about [that golem]?
Feel into the power of you.
You’ve got it you’ve got it.
Feel into the power within you.
Feel into the power that is in you.
You are your own god.
You are your beloved one.
You are.
You are.
You are!
You are!!
You are!!!!
You are.

You are your beloved one.
Recognize that fact.
How we treat ourselves,
much worse than we would treat another?
Condemnation, criticizing, doubting our own worth?
Recognize your value, S______,
you, a special creature, just like me.
We’re side by side upon creation’s workbench.
Why are we here?
This dimension we experience
has some special purpose, meaning just for me,
a divine one too, for you I know with special certainty!!!! OMG!!!
What is that purpose, meaning, where to find it?
Don’t take directions from a madman,
mind just as warped as mine.
Look unto yourself because
there is where you always have to live.
The solution is to identify the problem.

You are your own god.
You should worship daily!
Be faithful, in the end, what might occur, but
then again, what is the alternative?
An atheist unto yourself,
disbelieving your divine reality?
Dark heresy: would you deny your meaning, purpose?
Only make public practice of your religion.
Don’t hide your worship in a midnight mass,
but bring it out on Sunday, leave your special smile.
When you start your worship,
when the service does commence,
look around you, who is sitting in the pews?
Fickle, they audition every new religion.
When they see your worship, they might want to join you.
We could start a cult.
Let us all wear dark sunglasses,
purple robes, and drink each liquid
presented to us as a sacred sacrament.

And now your roses:

Every rose that dies, another one would come alive.
Every death is somehow joined with life.
Being born means born to die.
Lots of living in between, but
the real objective is the loving.
I would love you, yes, but really love you!
When that portal opens,
we should explore it with commitment,
as an act of ministration to your beloved,
both unto you and unto me.
Not intermittent but something that might drive us.

The dream again, my thorn would pierce your heart,
draw your blood, that would issue forth,
and join with the color of that flower,
our union making liquid roses.
I would heal your wound with special antiseptic.
Healing with my mouth, the part of me that does the eating.
I would hold between my lips,
my tongue, upon your member.
With the pressure from my tongue,
a bright healing you and I would both receive.
The portal opened once again where that altar was created.
The blood upon it, running down,
our union and our pleasure,
cycling worship of our bodies and ourselves.
Participation in that cycling that I hope you’ve thought of too.
I would be inside you, as much as you might allow.
Bring healing to you just as I have healed myself!

Every dream you dream, a felt frequency.
A dream of you is all I have,
the frequency obtained by close proximity.
Like Wi-Fi, would you let me have your password?
Adjusting my antenna for improved reception,
of your broadcast, just as I would transmit mine.
Share a frequency, broadcast, transmission, reception, cycling,
repetition, closely, with you, sweet vibration.
Tune with you inside that dream.

Feel into the power of myself.
If not, impossible to write these words.
I have it, I have it, I have it!!!!
When I see you, and the power you project,
like a darshan, transmitted by your five eyes, three of which are secret.
Feel into the power within me, within you,
that you transmitted through the ether,
that I receive and would transmit to you.
Power to incite these words
written to you, a fantasy that I conjure.
Would make you come alive, but I too would honor your reality,
and know it better:
my desire, you are.
You are.
You are.
You are!
You are!!
You are!!!!
You are.