Oyá

Oyá

"Your son was blessed 

with life, but it comes 

at a price. The rabbit,
who's throat you sliced
open in my graveyard, 

my temple,
is not enough 

for this child,"
came the words
from my ten
year-old mouth—
not my words.

"Your child was mine,
is mine,
has always been
mine.
He is on loan
at my discretion,
Eternally returnable to
sender, & it pains me
every day I am
without him."

I was there, but I wasn't—
lost beneath the weight
of Puerto Rican rum
& Dominican cigar
& Oyá, orisha of the dead,
Original Mother.

"He will live,
but you will not,"
dragged dread
through my heart as
my mouth continued
to spout another's
Words. ¡Yet, I could not
stop! "I will leave him
here, for now,
for the world to use
his gifts a while
longer, but know this:
I will take each & every
one of you instead."

I realized then
that loving me
is a death sentence
no words
could ever 

complete.

Petulance

"What does that mean?" she asks 

as the big heads on the tube

analyze the blood sport 

that has replaced the corpse 

of politics. 

"Petulant?" I reply, called into duty, 

called to defend my pride,

"Bratty, simply put—acting spoiled 

& privileged." 

"& how do you spell it?" 

I bristle at the challenge; 

is that doubt, or a test; 

but 2020 has been nothing 

more than a riddle of doubt, 

a series of tests, of challenges; & I am under her

Spell. Powerless, 

I must comply. 

"P-E-T-U-L-E-N-T, petulent," 

I announce in my best 

bee boy B·boy voice, or the best I can offer 

high & drunk & brimming 

with Love, 

as I finally find the strength 

to look into the eyes 

I've avoided all night, for fear I might 

just blurt out everything I feel inside 

& risk moments 

like this one. 

We ride on borrowed time,

after all, live within a mirage,

a potemkin friendship

that must be dismantled

when the Shogun has found

his way back to the dojo,

relegating me to the discard pile—

a ronin ghost, serving none,

served by none, once again

lost in the lonely wilderness,

a sole sullen soul damned

to wander, aimlessly. 

"Alexa," she says, breaking 

the silence as awkward as a tiny

boy in a world made for bigger men,

"spell petulant." She doubts me. 

Fine. I doubt myself, perpetually,

even wondering if I should be here;

or if I'm simply a glutton

for self-caused suffering,

a dreamer who can never wake. 

"P-E-T-U-L-A-N-T" says Alexa

& I'm exposed; my flaws revealed

by a single vowel, clearly unveiling

my imperfections, my humaness.

We laugh at my error, at a word

pimp bested by artificial intelligence.

She reminds me of my claims,

that she's added to my vast vocabulary,

"Is that true, or just empty words?"

"There's no such thing!" I reply,

"Every word is pregnant with meaning,

even in the face of apparent emptiness."

Emptiness is it's own language.

"But to answer your question, I have mad

respect for your skills, language & other-

wise; you are undoubtedly my muse."

Of that, I could never lie.

I die

a little every time

I have to leave her.

I want nothing

less than to be petulant,

to cry,

to whine,

to tantrum,

to beat my fists against the sky,

to force this Jewel to shine

for me; but wisdom warns me

that would only lead to an end,

already near, the end I fear;

& I cannot risk any

of these precious, stolen moments;

knowing I will soon lose

this privilege is pain

enough. 

So, I remain composed for her,

for me, for peace, for sanity—

however feigned, for the next day

I find myself, unable to think,

to work, to do anything other

than catch her scent in the pilfered

hair band wrapped around my wrist,

breathing in these notes of nutmeg

& leather, not unlike last night's wine.

I am hopeless & sad & fucked

in so many ways, except...

"Remember, remember,"

I remind myself.

Time is a fickle cunt,

no telling what the future

holds—even the cards offer little

more than speculation, hope

for things that may never be. Best

not to think of it. Live

in these moments, as precious

as she is, as brilliant,

as rare.

As always, I hold faith in destiny;

but truth be told, I'd rather be holding

her...

Black Cork

Lost

in a sea
of normalcy,
surrounded
by nothing
but beige,
taupe. tan—
shitty mediocrity,
I swim
with basic
bitches
& watch
them drown
while I rise
above them all.

Missing the Blarney Stone

Missing the Blarney Stone

Sitting in the Blarney Stone

sipping draught cider—

a brief respite

from Pestilence

& Death's mad gallops,

dowsing fear with alcohol,

hoping to never hear

the trots of War

& Famine; & a glance

askance chances upon

Clíodhna, Celtic Venus,
Queen of Wails—

concealed in a corner,

disguised behind spectacles,

sipping ale from amber glass.

Dare I open my mouth,

risk making a fool

of myself as I trip

unglibly through the ragged

words of a hermit, no longer

used to the social protocols

of humans? This cloistered

life foisted upon me has left

me more perverse than versed,

lost in thoughts unshared,

unshareable;

yet, now

beguiled

I want to speak,

to delve

into what drives

such a goddess

to hide, unassuming,

in open corners.

I dare!

The words flow

out as easily as

the cider flows in,

doubtless due

to my proximity

to the Sidhe, She

who shared

the Stone in which

we all now hide:

the lost, the lonely,

the lovelorn,

all torn

by life's

callous cruelty,

or our own.

Crowded,

but we are alone

for a while,

as all else

broken fades,

save the occasional

offer of a sordid tale

or the reminisce

of cigarettes

as stale as the pick-up lines

with which they are proffered.

This is dangerous!

We live in dangerous times,

full of demons professing

to be saints, full

of killer crowns

that have made every kiss,

every touch,

even the act of sharing

breath taboo;

but that's all I want

to do, to steal

away with a goddess,

to learn,

to laugh,

to live,

to learn to laugh to live,

again—to love!

& that scares me,

& I don't know why.

I know I did not arrive

alone, & turn to see

my companion, asleep,

surrendered to the potions,

surrounded by empty

upturned

vials & chalices;

but no one lives

at the Blarney Stone,

we're all tourists,

friendly invaders

whom sooner than later

must free ourselves

from this spell,

this illusion of freedom—

every respite ends;

reality awaits—

so I gather my goodbyes,
my gear, & my somnambulist
friend to kiss
the darkened sky;
& as we wander back
from whence we came—
I'm struck
by the fact
that I forgot
to kiss
the Stone;
worse yet,
I missed my chance
to kiss the goddess
who gifted
it to us all.

I may not always be The Hermit,
but I am perpetually The Fool.

How to Love a Porn Star

How to Love a Porn Star

First.
Foremost:
Understand 

she can never be yours.

Even though she owns

your heart,

undoubtedly & irrevocably,

she will always belong

to everyone else,

to her co-stars,

to her audience,

to her fans.

You are none

of these things;

you can never be.

When I meet her, I have no idea

who she is; just the gorgeous

crimson-curled girl

washing her clothes

at the lavanderia,

attentively watching

Spanish language telenovelas,

brow furrowed

as she tries making sense

of the endless melodrama.

I had never heard

of Dallas Wagstaff.

Second.

Never ask for sex.

It's her job, & no one  enjoys

bringing their work home.

Instead, be patient;

she will come to you

upon her own whims,

full of desire & lust & magick,

& she will mount you

like a wide-winged dragon,

& soon enough

you will find

yourselves intertwined

& writhing like a gordian

ouroboros.

She seems surprised

when I approach her,

or annoyed, thinking

I was little more

than another

overzealous fan

presuming

she was forever

on the prowl

for new lovers,

her brow

only digging deeper.

"You seem a bit confused,"

I chide her, "I'd be happy

to translate, happy to open

the world to you. My mother

always said two tongues

are better than one."

Third.

Abolish jealousy.

It serves no good

to anyone's heart,

as thoughts of late

nights & long

weekends away,

as neverending visions

of countless men & women

having their way

will only eat at you,

a restless, rabid raccoon

perpetually gnawing

at your guts

& regurgitating

indigestible bile.

"Te extraño," I say

as I transcribe the words

onto her bare back

with a sumi brush

dipped in jagua henna.

"Te extraño," she repeats,

"What does that mean?"

"It means I miss you,"

I reply as I cap the "n"

with a tilde.

I pull back

to get a better look

at my handiwork,

her vocabularium.

These words will fade,

but she will always see

their shadows.

She turns her head

to catch me

from  the corner of her left eye.

"¿Me extraña," she asks, coyly,

"aveces?"

"Me extrañas," I correct,"Bueno,

siempre y nunca, amor."

Finally.

Accept that you will lose

her. Nothing lasts,

nothing is permanent,

every story ends.

One day, Dallas will get home

from Houston after a weeklong

series of shoots with nary a call,

nary a text, & all

this incommunicado

will drive you mad,

& you will attack

in a jealous rage.

You will insist

she be only yours.

You will demand

she fuck you,

immediately, to prove her love.

& she will realize

that you, too,

are incapable

of loving her

the way she needs

to be loved.

She won't even unpack

her bags, she will call

a friend to get her & she will leave

you with apologies pouring forth

from your lips

like oxidized wine, nothing

but vinegar in her ears;

the damage already done.

I never

did get to know Dallas,

only ever the girl

she hid beneath. "Why

do you like painting

on my body like this?"

asks the next one

I cannot love.

She thinks

it odd,

peculiar,

kinky.

"I love words," I lie,

"the way they feel

when they are drawn out,

when I can witness

their permanency & impermanence

at once."

"Are we permanent?" She asks,

wriggling under the tickle of the sumi brush.

"Of course," I say, smiling

at her extended eye.

I finish the thought in my mind:

as permanent as these words

inscribed on the wrong skin

in jagua henna.

Tenacity

Tenacity

The World is dying
around us as we risk
Contagion, while I pull
her destiny from my deck.
"You're future is up
to you Jewels;” I say,
“you know
what you've done—
laid the groundwork,
built the foundation,
all driven
by the power
of unfulfilled lust,
laced with pure wit,
undying persistence,
& mad perspicacity!"

There is no rod,
no staff to comfort her;
she must rise, alone,
to meet the challenge,
& she leaves me awed
in her renewed glow,
a shine so bright
I can't even look at her
directly, I can only cast
askance glances,
because she is everything
I want, but nothing
I can have.

She wants a warrior,
& I am but a simple poet—
The Fool, falling again,
yet again, never caring,
knowing it never matters
how far I fall, I always land
on my feet. I make words,
not wars, but her soldier
is POWed, a prisoner
of poor states
& even poorer
circumstances.

But when The World
is dying, when destiny
is threatened by fate
& folly, exceptions
must be made. So
we end up naked
on her sleigh,
ready to face
The End
together.

The End,
with rules:
I cannot touch
The Jewels;
I do not need to;
her presence is enough.
It's enough to feel her
firmly tucked into my nook,
enough to feel her feel
secure enough to sleep
there soundly.

Where there is enough Love,
nothing else matters.

The End
is all in our heads,
but sometimes
you have to pretend—
Nothing's ever over,
but Death is still a diva
when she's striking down
en masse,
when she's put The World
on blast,
when you have everything
to lose, but no one
to lose it with.

So, in the end,
I end up alone,
lounging
on my orange throne,
listening to The World
dying on every channel,
haunted
by faint memories,
echoes of our time
together, ghosts
of what may have been,
had Jewels preferred poets
to warriors,
Lovers to fighters,
Truth to power.

She holds all
the power she needs,
after all. Perhaps,
once Jewels can see
the potency
of her own shine,
she will allow me
the honor
of being consumed,
utterly devoured,
by her glorious light!

Ghosts

Ghosts 

My favorite
part of the morning—
settling in
for a day of work,
finally getting a chance
to put a little food
in my stomach,
my lips get greasy
with soppressata & butter;
I wipe them clean,
my tissue shines
in pink & red hues,
residue from kissing you.


I’m loathe to throw
it away, rather
I tuck it in my sleeve,
because when I have
to be without you,
at least I can be
comforted by the ghosts
of our kisses.

Your Eternal Dance

Your Eternal Dance

Some say you should be my queen,
but I am more Fool than king.

A Fool will not rule
or be ruled,
but is always open
to worship,
drawn to it,
like the flame
to the moth
fluttering
close enough
to be illuminated,
to have its magic
made clear.

I will not crown you
my Queen;
instead I will adore you,
pray under your divine light,
whisper your name
to the sky
to invoke you,
venerate you for the goddess
I know you to be.

Some say you should be my queen,
but regents are too prone
to tyranny, to staking claims,
to bending nature
to their own whims;
these things are beneath you.
Your proclivities lie
in creation, inhaling
death to exhale stars,
consuming stars
to excrete Life.

Some say you should be a queen,
but you rise
above titles,
beyond law,
past present or future.
I bow before you,
not out of obeisance,
but in reverence, hoping
that, given your place
in the pantheon of my heart,
you will allow me
to partake in your eternal
dance.

Bloom

Bloom
My Love,
my Moon,
my Muse,
my wide Night Sky,
my sweet lotus flower—
O, sit ol' lotus,
perched upon your pad,
sit & stay with me
a while.

I want to watch
you bloom, under
the rays of the moon, watch
each precious petal
spreading itself
to embrace the Universe.

I cannot bear
to watch you 
hide inside yourself, 
within walls
you would build
to block out
the very light 
that makes you shine.

So be wise
my sweet lotus,
as you wander to ponds
old & new—
your head wants left alone
while your heart wants to roam,
but your spirit will carry you
home.

Blood Moon

My latest Moon poem, composed a couple of days after last week's partially eclipsed Blood Moon...

Blood Moon

My moon bleeds tonight,
not from harm,
but because nothing can stay
Full, forever; everything
must empty
lest it burst.

My moon bleeds tonight,
& I worship her
as I always do,
more so, knowing
tonight we dance
in shadows
so thin,
only I can see—
She feels
the sliver,
like black
thread dragged
across her body,
a taste of the wane
that is coming.

My moon bleeds tonight,
& She will draw me
to her & I will slide
inside & together
We release—release
the world around us
for the Universe
about Us,
release the heart
& the mind
for the spirit
We have been
neglecting,
release resentment
for Love.

My moon bleeds
for me tonight.
¿Will she bleed
for me, again?
Only Destiny
has that answer.
I only know
the moon
must bleed,
as must I,
as must we all.

Firefly

firefly

My Muse
is a firefly
& temptation tells me:
trap her,
capture her
in a jar, screw
on a lid pricked
with just enough
holes to let
her breathe—
trap her so that I can imagine
she fires for me.

But she doesn't.

Fireflies fire
from their desire,
to flee, to breed,
to be! 

So I keep 
my firefly free
of jars or nets
or any constraints,
& she flutters & floats
& flitters about
& she burns,
she burns so bright
she ignites the sky,
& sometimes I catch
her just within sight,
on my right,
& confuse her
for a meteorite—
shooting stardust:
memories
of a Universe
more ancient than gods.

My muse is
a firefly, free
to fire anywhere,
& my blessing is
that she chooses
to burn brightest
near me.

Night Falls

Night falls
& I rise
to meet her,
bury my mountains
deep, so deep
her stars burn me,
turn me, I churn
& erupt
in torrid ash clouds
& magnificent magma.

My Night erupts
simultaneously, 
pouring
forth liquid life,
cooling my fervent fire,
whetting my thirst
in rivers that flow
to form oceans
where only desert—
empty wasteland—
once stood. I would 
be nothing
without Her,
my Night
bearing the water
of Life
to this once
barren Earth—
her air fueling
my fire inducing
her water infusing
my soil seeding
her air until
Creation
has been acheived—
& I am relieved,
knowing She leaves
Me with the arrival
of the Sun,
leaves me
with reminders
of our love,
crawling, swimming,
running, flying—
filling me
until my Night
falls again,
& I rise.

Eight Blades

Eight Blades

You seek security,
safety, freedom
from the things that ail
the World. Would
that it were so simple,
so easy to escape 
problems inherent 
in probability.
 
I know You feel 
You might have found
a viable option,
the one solution
to making it
through this cruel,
cruel world,
& it lies in the arms
of another,
another who can offer
a simpler life,
a life free
of the concerns
the rest of us
have to face
head on.

Do You truly not see
that what You think
is security,
safety, freedom,
is merely an illusion,
a mirage made
specifically for You?

You will enter that oasis
only to learn, too late,
that you are trapped
in a desert,
condemned
to survive in a jail 
with no walls,
surrounded 
only by dry,
lifeless sand
for untold miles
everywhere you turn,
no water to bear
anywhere you stare,
no Life to share: 
a prison disguised
as paradise.

My Love,
my LOVE,
my undying love,
these are not my words,
these are prophecies
handed down by the gods
your would be jailer 
does not even believe in!

Eight blades. Eight
blades jammed
into the sand, 
into the Earth,
driven deep 
within my heart,
& You stand
fastened to one,
easily able to free
yourself, but only
by choice,
only by Will,
only by the wisdom
You try to deny.

Please, please
my Love,
my One & only
True Love, listen
to my counsel:
the answers You seek
will not be found
by looking
for Oases
that do not exist; only
within our own heart,
within your own mind,
within your own spirit,
never in the arms
of another 
too simple
to understand 
the complexity of You.

You know
I’m right. Denial
will serve no purpose,
except to drag
out  the inevitable
& expand the pain
someone will have to suffer
in the end.

The sooner You free
yourself from this
prison mistaken
for paradise,
this iron maiden
of the mind,
the sooner You can accept
that You cannot substitute
fate for Destiny,
the sooner You can begin
to be the difference
in this cruel,
cruel world,
& not just one 
of its remainders.

Alchemy

alchemy
I’m just the Fool, 
Nothing, Zero,
crying at the back
of the bus, Muse
blowing through
my head because
my muse is so far
from me, drifting,
drifting, still
drifting away,
& toward,
& the pain
weighs on me
because holding up
the sky alone
is no easy task—
ask Atlas—shrugging
is no option.

So I cry,
the Fool
at the back
of the bus,
& I hide
my tears
behind her mirrorshades,
wipe with a wedding
napkin, hoping
that I might
still have a chance
at that dream,
because that's what fools do:
dream the impossible.

Nothing is impossible
for the Fool whose
muse finds the Will
to drift back to him, 
finds the Words
to awaken him,
finds the Way
to infuse
her power 
with his—
power to transmute 
nothing into something, 
Zero to One—
to slay a Fool 
to make room 
for the Mage.

Cake

Cake

Let him eat cake.
Let him gorge
himself on that
sweet confection,
until his face
explodes
in streams of
colorful confetti.

Flour, sugar, eggs, butter—
Go on. Have another!

Enjoy every morsel.
Lick every last, lingering
crumb from your filthy, 
flaccid lips.
 
You’ll never taste the icing.

Cyclops

“Stranger, you are a fool, or else you know nothing of this country. Talk to me, indeed, about fearing the gods or shunning their anger? We Cyclopes do not care about Jove or any of your blessed gods, for we are ever so much stronger than they.”—Polyphemus

You’d like to think
me Οὖτις,
no one of consequence,
a mere Fool, lost
in the wilderness,
but you’d be wrong.

You are the one
unworthy to be
my rival, my equal,
my superior.

I may be Nobody,
but you are nothing,
nothing but an uncouth
cyclops feeding
from my crew,
coveting what is mine.

I pity you, Polyphemus
condemned to see
the world through
a hub, only fit
to cast straightforward
glances, always
missing the periphery,
blind to the Universe
outside of your myopic 
vision. 

Narrow vision leads
to a narrow mind.

& it will take nothing
but my guile
to intoxicate you,
to drive my spear
through that eye,
blind you so that even
your savage world
goes black.

Throw stones,
if you must,
curse Nobody
as if it were my name,
cry to the Gods
you have no faith in, 
shout for your father,
that wrathful Poseidon;
it will not help
your cause.

As you draw the spear
from your eye,
I will already be flying,
sailing back to my dear
Penelope. 

I will climb
the topmast
& reveal 
my true name,
you will know it,
and say it,
& curse Creation.

Cursed, perhaps
I’ll be, but I can’t
let you trap me,
even your father—
Tosser of Tempests—
can only delay
me. Nothing
can stop me,
keep me
from returning
home, returning
to the arms
of my sweet
Penelope. 

The Longest Day

Another Poem inspired by Nüt & Geb

 The Longest Day

How long must I burn
under this cruel Sun,
expose myself
to the light
when all I want
is darkness? 

I miss my Night,
cloaked in her blueblack
robe full of the infinity
of stars, spread
only for me, 
to show the Moon
glowing in her womb.

There existed only me,
& Her, & our lust. 

But Shu, in wisdom,
knew The Earth
needed Life,
needed to grow,
needed to prosper,
& He blew
us apart
with a promise:
Soon enough
my Love & I
will be reunited,
if only for a few, 
brief hours,
until that Sun,
that cruel, cruel sun,
returns to chase
Her away.

I already hate
the Sun,
& it's only 
the first day.

The longest day.

So I wait
for this day
to give way,
for this Sun
to drown
in the horizon,
for Night to descend,
to envelop me
as she once did,
to fill me
with her darkness,
to dazzle me
with her stars. 

Will this day never end? 

Won't the Sun
at least suspend
His cruelty long
enough for me
to simply taste
the bliss that is
my Night,
my Night,
my precious
Night?