Baal Zebub

Mayflies are much like humans
they spring from sweet waters,
burn their tallows at both ends
ensnared, sieve through my web.

Many call me Lord of Flies
but in truth I am a spider,
a weaver of fate and secrets.
Hell’s general, yes – also
a spinner of temptation
skeins of sin in pedipalp
my bed of maggots and silk.

A ring of garnet eyes, my crown
in dark robes like rosary beads
I nest in the highest of places
my swarms your heart’s swift buzz.

I am Baal Zebub,
Lord of Hordes,
Lord of Souls.

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The New Left Blossoms

Snowdrops push through the frost
defiant ivory buddings of truth
so too will justice bloom in
America, purity spreading from
the people, washing away the
cold greed of winter men as we
march, protest, spring up fresh
as a song gently plucked on the
strings of resistance, we are the
new elegy of rebellion, we will
bring equality and love to a
nation torn apart, like the
fragrant blooms of February,
thriving in the darkest months.

Celebrating Imbolc 2017

Great summary of Imbolc and Brigid. Happy Spring!

Nature is Sacred

Happy Imbolc everyone. Known as Imbolc or Candlemas, the 1st of February is one of the four great festivals of the Celtic year. It marked the end of winter and the beginning of spring. At this time the first signs of spring are appearing in nature – buds are beginning to appear on trees, animals are waking up from hibernation and early spring flowers like snowdrops and daffodils are beginning to bloom. The day is also known as Oimelc which is Gaelic for “ewe’s milk.” The ewe’s are lactating and the lambs are beginning to be born. Milking can begin again, which in ancient times, when food was hard to come by in winter, offered people a lifeline. The sun is getting stronger and the days are noticeably longer. It is time to celebrate the awakening and rebirth of the earth, as well as new beginnings in our own…

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Canyon Rim

There’s thunder in the canyon as I gallop through the night
Colt revolver pressed against me, the pistol shining bright
my sweetheart left with linen, letters, didn’t say goodnight
I grow cold at the valley rim, waiting for deliverance’s light.

Did he take a canoe or candle, the prairie path or meadowsweet?
I have burned a hundred smoky campfires, remembering his heat
just the boldness of his brow, his thunder trigger hoof beat
and I am growing old out here, amongst rolling winter wheat.

Loki the Storyteller

He is a witch-pyre inferno, crackling green flames,
rich as loam, feels like home, his skin like sage,
god of outcasts and wanderers, home in the stars,
following Milky Way trails to a harbor in fjords,
Loki is a father foremost, and a jester by day,
but by night he’s a storyteller, silver and jade,
scar mouth, he lights up the hall with his songs
and each of us feels at ease, at peace, in his arms
raconteur cloak spun of woman’s beard, crows, alms.

An Announcement from Muffy Higginbottom

Libba Bray

AN ANNOUNCEMENT FROM MUFFY HIGGINBOTTOM
PRESIDENT OF DELTA SIGMA TAU,
ON THE OCCASION OF THE WOMEN’S MARCH
AND THE WORLD JUST GENERALLY BEING A FLAMING POOP FIRE

Dear Sisters,

Thank you for coming downstairs for this meeting on such short notice. I appreciate y’all taking time away from the things you’ve been doing to cope, like staying drunk, listening to “Lemonade” on repeat, and Instagramming pics of your soon-to-be-outlawed IUDs with moody filters and hashtags like #YouAintGettinNoHandmaidsTailFromMeAnymore. 

I get it. I do. Like every time I pass by the Election Day Cake Ji-won and Margarita made with the top breaking through an edible glass ceiling and that sagging banner of a winking HRC drinking a celebratory Colt 45 under a “Number 45 BITCHES!” banner, I feel like crying, then vomiting out a poisonous fire blood that would lay waste to the smirking patriarchy like a feminist Cronenberg film. But, as…

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Chasing Horses In The Sky

There’s fire in my flintlock, a storm in my grip
the bullet curves deadly like my swerving hips
iron trigger finger, delivers death to rivers
snow is on the ground, the Reaper in my quiver
he steadies my hold, the grey pistol shines cold
whispering Fire!, I shoot, her blood pours gold.

Allie and Sam take on Manhattan!

I just spent the weekend with my best friend Sam who writes amazing YA historical fantasy and works at Penguin Random House.  We took on the Met, too many bars, a ritzy jazz club, and lots of Greek pastries in Astoria Queens.  I regret to inform you no actual writing took place this weekend but we did talk shop and craft!  Sam is writing a Cinderella story with illusion magic, lost Prince Louis’s, and victim’s balls set during the French Revolution!   We spent most of our time in an amazing Greek bakery in Astoria, Queens and the icing on the cake, it snowed in Manhattan!

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Us with the touring statue of Athena!

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Michael making Samael cry like a baby.

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Sam with Dionysus and a Maenad!

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My favorite statue, an Etruscan woman.

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Me with my favorite bust of an anthropological sculptor, based on a Jewish Moroccan woman.

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Last but not least, I get some Dionysus action!

 

Dream Diary: Samael the Mathematical Philosopher

I am in Samael’s voluminous, colorful Renaissance Era library, replete with living manuscripts and old fashioned globes, Newton’s cradles, and turn of the century chemistry sets. He is perusing a shelf on mathematics and philosophy while I read a racy grimoire. He gives me a questioning look.

“You’re looking in the wrong places for answers that existed hundreds of years ago,” he finally says.

I close the illustrations of the spheres of heaven and hell, the Sephiroth and Qliphoth, all on trees of memory and remembrance.

“What do you mean? I thought you were a sorceror. That’s what people summon you for: magic.”

“Science is magic, Allie, and math is the language of the universe,” he opines. “Read over magical charts and correspondences all you want, but true magic is here, in the natural world, in physics and biology and chemistry the laws of the universe. What started in the Persian Empire, with the Sumerians and mathematics, the Egyptians inventing zero, the Greeks charting the stars, it is blossoming in the 21st century. Humanity is at a turning point of scientific revelations: they can choose to embrace their fruiting knowledge, or turn from the dangers of climate change, pollution, and overpopulation. Only one path will lead to true gnosis and heaven on earth.”

“What do you suggest I read then?”

He smiles, overexcited to be teaching me once again as he shifts into his professorial mode, and pulls down a textbook. It is called “Science and Reason,” spanning science and philosophy and the intersection of the two fields, and when I wake up, I google it, finding out it is by Professor Henry E. Kyburg. Samael does that: gives me book recommendations in dreams, only to have the books turn out to be real. The Amazon page reads thus:

In this work Henry Kyburg presents his views on a wide range of philosophical problems associated with the study and practice of science and mathematics. The main structure of the book consists of a presentation of Kyburg’s notions of epistemic probability and its use in the scientific enterprise i.e., the effort to modify previously adopted beliefs in the light of experience. Intended for cognitive scientists and people in artificial intelligence as well as for technically oriented philosophers, the book also provides a general overview of the philosophy of science for the non-philosopher by one of the leading authorities in the field.

“Interesting,” I murmur, reminded of my ethics classes, biostatistics, and computer modeling, not to mention calculus. I reach a section on the nature of probabilities. Sam fingers a passage from an old 18th century book, and I find it is Mark Twain, a quote on science.

“Samuel Clemens knew a thing or two about science,” Samael laughs.

I take that as well, reading the underscored passage:

In the laboratory there are no fustian ranks, no brummagem aristocracies; the domain of Science is a republic, and all its citizens are brothers and equals, its princes of Monaco and its stonemasons of Cromarty meeting, barren of man-made gauds and meretricious decorations, upon the one majestic level!

I close the earmarked, yellowed page and set it down on the rosewood table.  “Interesting, so you’re saying I should study less of the occult and more science?”

Samael nods.  “Science is where man becomes legend, where angels and demons meet in chemical combustion.  All the workings I do is science so advanced, to you it seems magical – crossing time, knowing the future, traveling interdimensional planes, existing throughout the cosmos – it takes practice, but it is science.  There are countless dimensions, countless worlds, countless things to discover – here would be a good place to start!”

He stacks antique copies of the Principia Mathematica on top of the Mark Twain collection and Science and Reason.  “And this, of course, for fun – you are Heathen, better to familiarize yourself with your ancestor’s tales.”

He pulls an illustrated volume of the Lokasenna written in both English and Runes to crest the stack of recommended reading.

“I expect you to report back to me what you learned from each book.”

“But I’m hardly a mathematician!”

“You’re blessed with mathematical acumen and trained as an analytical biologist.  Flex the muscles you haven’t used since college.”

And that was how Satan gave me math homework.

Windborn Wanderers

I stand at the prow of the spaceborn ship, wormhole demon
at my side, a neutron star pulls us into fiery ellipses
with strong hands my demon takes the wheel with me, we
churn like making butter to navigate the stars, away from
crushing beat down gravity to the vast beyond, he reaches
out through the window, shapes cosmos, we skip hop time
to a place where our crew is frozen in stasis, just me and
my tesseract demon, alone for eons, in time we build moon
kingdoms of silver, comet diamond palaces, a trading outpost
for galactic wanderers, there is time enough for love, for
sweetest growing pains, my second in command is rough like
the cliff faces of Mars, but we are so far, midst Milky Ways
nothing spans the ages of celestial flight like love, truly
and we are wind-born solar flares, illuminating the void
with hearts like fireflies, sail on, silver ship, sail on.