Witch

Tempestuous Testament

Anathema; Reviled and shunned, by my own hand, having written my own, detested story
Pages turned where the voice that speaks, my own, creaks with cursed harbingers –
That I am damned, and detested, within my own cruel, disordered mind
These sharp and rusty fragments do not dissipate in this ill begotten wind
That blows through the hollows beneath my cheeks, through stiff joints and swollen knuckles
Brushes the low curve of my spine producing tremors that embalm me like a thousand feral gnats
Lapping at my meringue flesh, pricking it with their tiny stiletto teeth, as if I am a succulent –
My plump flesh ripe and sweet
However, their hordes are merely demons smelling my earthy scent, a dead giveaway of my wretchedness
I am witch
I seek no harm to others, only to myself, and on my behalf must admit that I am full of wrath
I call the clouds, the wind, to roil
To chastise myself for my grievous errors, upside down and sideways, singular and plural –
Threefold when webs cling to corners, and ruse slithers up the walls, my minds eye blinded –
Unfolding a collateral morn…
Debris crunches beneath these funeral boots, antiquities phantoms smeared upon their withered soles
Briar and bruise, cut and burn mars skin with a map resembling a tortured playground –
Like the one long ago where my 5 year old self first met its shadow…
A circular teeter totter from which I fell and broke my arm in two places; A greenstick fracture
There was no teetering… nor tottering… no movement… only sitting
Barely the space of a few feet between ground, and girl
The beginning of wreaking mayhem on myself for my helplessness to exterminate abominations
How else could this occur?
Perhaps I bore marshmallow bones?
Or were they volcanic; Full of holes and feather light?
Some believe that there are accidents, but the rest of us know there aren’t
From the time that I could tie my shoelaces
My mind at war with itself
My heavy eyes observed the intricacies of the universe –
The pecking order of oblivious mannequins
There are few saviors, and none blessed me with their good deeds during those 2am night terrors
As, swept up in soft arms, we would creep into the brittle, cold night air…
When he, fulcrum to her lever
Ran amuck through the wormwood fields, leafy oils seeping through his skin, staining it green
Until his mind was gone and his demons breathed, inhaled her forlorn miseries –
Throwing them back at her in a cyclone of blood
Brutal, metal zig-zag teeth leaving bite marks on her tender faith
Droplets of bitter crimson climbing up the hem of her precious wedding gown
The only bit of good in the bad; She would not collapse, would not pass onto her offspring the feeling of forfeiture
But even with her clever, feline, agile tenaciousness
Her medicinal, crafty armamentarium of spotless, contemplative infinities, intuitive planes, and transcendental artistry
She could not separate the heart from the hurt, the child from the tarnish, the soul from the shame
I am a product of primitive gardens; Seeds that bloom threads of dark divination –
Harms that need not be human faults, though they be!
I screech and scream in red splattered so brutally across creamy walls that it settles; Into silence –
I am a ghost in Time magazine photographs
Bleeding and bled yet revived and fueled by fury; A porcelain pinata exploding with a parched bloodlust
Come Fall I feel its nearing –
That inky wash staining my skin and eyes
Its dark, dreary appendages, spider-leg fingers reaching for my spirit, clawing at my dreams
A childs memory mottled with guilt
Its skulking shadows magnified on the wall in the candles flame
I am a chromatic aberration, circles of confusion along the path of chronic calculations –
Energy exhausted, to determine sacred ground, where my eyes need not plead for, nor fear… love
Mugwort tea to bless my dreams, yet knowing that I can’t undo those parts of me that now travel through each lifetime
I can’t spell an answer when the question is irrelevant –
Whatever determines what remains, so shall it be
And I can scream red, can cut off these scars, dig deep and long, break these wicked bones rip my hair, my lashes
I can rage that I will not become the results of blights, and plagues, and ravages –

Of brutal things wrapped in pretty bows (vile atrocities should be thrown to hell, but even hell doesn’t want them)

I can fight the good fight, but as the long, grey shadows of fall slink over my face with their cold, wet tongues
I am all I am, and although I loathe certain things that have brought me here
I loathe the abandonment of myself even more

I could not save her from his thieving arms
I was a child with an angelic spirit whose wings were torn, ripped from their tender seams
Left on the floor in a crumpled heap, in their shattered bedroom –
Holes and glass, metal and wood, paper and pierced photographs; What vile dream is this?
My child is a monster
I invoke the clouds, the wind to roil at her strength
While my wicked eyes send heartbroken tears down my lonely, empty face

I am witch
I seek no harm to others, only to myself, and on my behalf must admit that I am full of wrath

We Called Him Michael

Purple Rain Rabbit, We’re All Sane Here

We faced it in chorus, but absorbed it with eyes, pores, bones, spirits differently
9 paths of devastation, plowing a 10 year toxic wasteland, carving 13 canyons of separation
Necrotic residue from louche lawyers and corrupt bloodlines
That steel green room, with its antiseptic fringe, bland beige floors, tubes and currents, cold metal rails
And walls that screamed in silence…
A brutal, beautiful 1:45am last call
Lucid corner hawk eyes working overtime, badge 1325 stoically, tacitly silent
Sink into the wall, slide around the crime scene like a ghost, edit offenses, clock out –
Comatose manacle adding insult to injury, where are the crows with that shiny key?
Empty facts from incompetent voyeurs collecting butterfly samples; Ripping off delicate wings –
Desecrating history, writing its tragedy with an unsterilized pen spewing bacteria ink
Which could not be excised with smudging lips or two pair of zen eyes…
Those last renegade bones slicing through the thick membrane of death air –
Gestures bringing life to a conclusion; A modulation of disbelief and disappointment, rise and fall, rise and fall…
How low can you go… (How odd the thoughts you think)
The astringent, last measure of a chest expelling its final breath, like an acupunctured balloon
Do not go there, into the myth of; It will make you stronger –
Those whom suffer lifes brutal hypocrisies do not need conceited, reductive sentiments
Time has pumiced, erased, sliced, smoothed me into exactly what my choices revealed; Decided
And I am not your deterrence, so go find your own plagues, uncover your own self, dance with your own demons…
Here, in this vortex of incarceration, of acrimonious disintegration –
I will not let these acid riddled pages scar my mind, nor blunt my pen
I will not give one second of my eternal child to the vile butchers of my reflection
I will imagine, remember, put form to pieces, and keep you safe with me –
Know those eyes through every door, dream, and nightmare that I’m allowed…
Defining all space, time and matter, your presence was an orphic cathedral on top of fire mountain
Yet love… ah love –
A sophistical valentine stuffed into an elementary school, pink, haphazardly stapled construction-paper envelope –
An article of faith clutched in ecstatic hands –
Isn’t always enough…
It can’t save the light of the festering moon, nor storm the gates of fate
Can’t mutate the evil that churns behind empty eyes, nor guarantee spun sugar and unadulterated bliss
Can’t bind your fingers to mine, nor keep a grown adult from becoming a little child –
As the last measure of all you were is released, fingers slip though fingers
And spirit steps into our ambiguity, and steps into its omniscient divinity
This moment, path, this departure is its own beginning, despite being my ending
Which will then become a beginning; Tucked inside, over and over, smaller and smaller like a Russian nesting doll (Ah, those remarkable thoughts) –
To be held with acceptance and reverence, to witness and honor with love and direction, then
The violence must be tended (Come now, stop pandering to fairytales; these are visions that will be, not that may be)
With blossoming eyes, a soft heart, a childs’ spirit –
A calling to undress our fallacies, frailties, lunacies, clichés and platitudes
Our inconsistencies and absolutes! Do not let these feed you (Mirror, show me my beloved, show me my truth)
Time, fantasy, reality, love, hate; These are not our enemy –
We are
Your shadow kissed the eerie hallway, scurried down its scrapbook walls and I followed
Like I was chasing a hummingbird into a hurricane
While she stayed behind for a love letter kiss farewell
Your cooling –
Her meditative night sky, last goodbye, an insistence toward distance –
Lantern stars softly illuminating drifting snowflakes that covered the last February footsteps…
I chased your shadow until it turned into shimmery strands permeating; Seed, stone, fur, skin –
Energy assimilating
Your name rested on my lips, my snowy footprints shaky, my eyes, lips, and the smoke blue
That I exhaled in the parking lot, as I stared into my numbness
The stars spelled your notoriety and amused the moon
Wind howled like a wolf, its caramel-eyed planchettes waiting for questions –
So real that I looked for tracks across the concrete; City was your nature
The rain came pouring down, pounding like a 48 foot tall hammering man, and I knew then
That the Emerald City sky was saying goodbye
Life bites with savage abandon, chews away what once was; Turns familiarity backwards –
With a simple gesture like opening a drawer and reaching inside…
Secrets come undone
Desert sky, tequila-etched fingerprints smearing inky worm shadows on a one page manuscript…
Shadows that blur and obscure what you thought that you once were
Edits, now my duty, because you’ve always been notoriously late, including to your own funeral –
Stuck on Snoqualmie in a four hour blizzard… hey hey, my my…
Some things are to be expected, and then you find that one page manuscript
Its words wilt petals on the funeral flowers that flood this sunless house of heartache artifacts
You exhale your desolate forlornness into the dusty air of this melancholy museum
As words run backward and inside out; Lies in truth, and truth in lies… (Come hither madness, cut out my eyes!)
One page written in actuality, becoming unwritten in reality –
Pen name missing an author
No one knew he was a nom de plume until the 13th hour
A pseudonym

Including him