Ananda

O Bull of Heaven, Abel First-Slain, ice sky eyes

lolling tongue as your brain bleeds out clouds,

the Golden Calf and mysteries of first martyr,

Adamah’s alchemist, God’s golden boy, altar cloth.

You were not meant to live past fifteen, and how

a mother mourns, how Cain bore a grim cross,

and Seth never even knew your name. First was

the Son of Dragon Qayin, brother of fire, second was

the thick seraphic Ox, son of rain, third was boy of

golden light, Yeshua’s line.  And your parents cry,

and no mother should bury her child, and I grow

old and cold, and in Pluto’s Cave on Mount Shasta,

the Sefer Raziel hums with virgin blood, and I am

the Weeping Wailer.

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Adamah Goes to War

White dapple mare screeches ivy vines

you drink wine smirking atop bony throne

sword through the dead, yellow eyes lolling

and under your skin a hellish lava red,

damned.

Saint George

The cock crows, the midnight ghosts

arise to haunt the day. Lance at ready,

golden visor gleams, all Heaven’s hosts

follow as you charge forward steady.

White mare, red bands of cloth, fire

in amber eyes, deep is this Saint George

fury sundering apart the demonic impure

and for the death of evil I sing my dirge.

But what is on the horizon? A ship of silver

to board and boast of deeds long done.

We board and sail off, the moon a sliver

and know that our charge’s peace we’ve won.

Adam’s Seal

Adam showed me his seal last night, and here is a crappily drawn rendition of the signet ring I was wearing on my right middle finger in gold: parts of a star with the constellation Orion throughout. Interesting and of course, on a pink post it. Anyone recognize this???

IMG_20181217_091117109

Blood in the Cut

It’s the pulse of the universe, pounded into forged bronze.
The guardian of the threshold is buzzing like a hive, golden
idol eyes the fire of god, light of the universe, and as he
lays hands on me and heals my favorite ways to die, I eat the
sacrament of the damned, him my animus, my lion. We are in the
cave together, bleeding out into the River Styx, painting all
Hell red with our spilled regrets, our shared burden. Iron and
hemoglobin, smell of a rusty nickel, making love like wolves.
Longing, lust, wildfires in the flames of our union, wandering.
There is a desert caged in my ribs of the unressurected dead,
and at the core of my stomach, Adam rides a bone horse in the
Valley of the Shadow of Death, and I am pregnant with pauses.
Eternity spent forlorn, wishful drinking and thinking, always
thinking, when everything feels like the movies, they say, you
bleed just to know you’re alive. It’s Wings of Desire, Wim Wenders
wrote this script before I was born, I the trapeze swinger that
condemns the purest of archangels to a life of earth and toil.
Shouting “Nein!” into the ears of the suicidal, only Michael instead
showed me a miracle, and I didn’t jump off that building, the
angel broke all that is holy and spoke loud and proud, so many
times, pulling me out of the heart of Hell, saving twelve year
old madrigal from the storm of evil in the heart of darkness,
hearts like apples, blood like wine, body of bread and bones of
soil. There are empty pages in the Sefer Raziel that say: cleave.
Cling to your Adamah, hang off your Chavah like she is your very
Cross. And the Prophet Adam becomes New Adam, and Mother Eve
births New Eve in her heart of hearts, wife and husband become
Virgin and Sun. The Feast of Adam and Eve draws close – December
24th, and the transformation of the Beast (named Adam, after all)
into the Prince of Heaven will be Christmas Eve, Michel is singing
in his somnambulent baritone, his Christ heart wishing me happy
birthday, saying Allie, we are both December babies, and the
emissary of his original Adam Ha Kadmon Christ left in the
harrowing to watch over humanity, the part of him that still
walks Earth, is Adam, a Trinity – Adam, Michael, Christ – all
fractions and decibels and electromagnetic waves of the same
blue flame. I could do a derivative – I’m reading Letters to a
Young Scientist by my hero, E. O. Wilson, and he says math is
something rudimentary knowledge satiates. He studied ants for
fifty years, and thus came population biology, and island
bottlenecks, oh father of taxonomy and ecology, magic is good
and well but I am a biologist, an ecologist, a public health
academic, and true magic is science, and that is what Adam
speaks of in harsh whispers: how the multiverse churns out
daisies, how fractals of stars become black holes, what lays
behind an Einstein Rosen bridge, how dark matter is God’s poetry.
Why lovers are the Platonic ideal of forms, joined in cosmic
union. But it slips away like sand, this voice of wind, and I
will be a scientist through and through, so I constantly fight
to be rational, logical, methodical, secular, as I analyze data
and wheel away like a mill at programming and statistics, and
where is space for God between my hypothesis testing and theories?
There is no proof of any of this, unquantifiable spirit. I am
dissociating the two core parts of my life: my passion for science,
my love of these twin angels and pantheon of gods I honor as priestess.
E. O. Wilson says lousy scientists are religious, that belief
in a higher power leads to bad science, and that wounded me.
My friends in the PhD cohort, mostly atheists, my professors
not men or women of the book or dvoverie belt, but I understand
linear regressions in music and poetry, the miracle of the brain
a work of clockwork God, purely Deist in my musings, Gnostic in
my rumination, Nassene in my obsession with ferverous pitch of
baptizing, John eating honey and locusts, and the Logos Adam
glossolalia prophesizes is like wind through barren fens,
insubstantial as mist, and I am left with my books on wetlands
and rivers and sharks, risk communication and cancer, and the
emperor of all maladies, my sweet fallen Michael’s heart, holds
back the mutated cells of the world, so maybe I should turn to
what is in every man and woman’s marrow, for we are his Cadmus
bones, soil sprung, to dust to return, but childbirth is a gift,
not a curse, and we had to fall, my brothers, to know redemption
sweet.

Resurrection Dance

Riding through the desert of the Valley of the Shadow of Samael,

I am leather-clad King in search of my Queen’s font, Eve rides bareback

behind me, babe pressed to her breast, and we are exiles in the wastes,

sprung from harsh ground, and the book of the angel Raziel is clutched

to my back, and the dune winds blow in scorching simoom heat, Seirim

haunt the wine-laden expanses, satyr dances vengeful Cain presides over,

he the Prince of Nod, but Eve and I must ride on on our bone steeds, followed

by all the undead I have raised in this resurrection dance. I am the fallen heart

of the Sun, the rising soul of the Father, and my Cross was olive in Paradise, I

skinned myself for my bosom wife, and now she wears my purity if only to protect

her delicate skin, my Bride, my Legendarium, and my own flesh grows hard as earth.

The wounds from Heavenly War never really wore out, ridges of train tracks over

my flesh, and in every incarnation I am scourged and bleeding raw, thick scar tissue

the only marker of my commitment to shouldering Sin.  My other wives are night

howlers, Eisheth eating the Damned, Lilith sucking me dry come the witching hour,

milking my seed for her own ends, and in the evening, Eve strays to the oasis and takes

up in my twin serpent’s arms, we have a burgeoning festooned mess of love, loss, pain.

The demons tempt, the devils wail, and the angels made mortal walk on, sinful Lebanon.

We that toil and travail away carrying shining Seth to higher ground, out of despair’s

leaden valley, with harsh concave bellies, shattered glass to dance on, Adam and Eve,

we were brilliant fliers in the sky once, general and mother warrior of Heaven bright,

but you see, for these seeds of stars, this Image of God we have become, to bear fruit,

Eve and I must be entered and locked into a cycle of Sin and suffering, exile of Eden.

The Garden I tend, I am at heart a farmer, and part of me, my corpus, is High  Above,

in the rose garden at the center of the universe, carrying flowers to Myself to turn into

anointing holy oil to rain down and absolve humanity of their sins, but Samael and the

Angels of Prostitution, Eve and I, we are mouthsful of vinegar and wishful drinking.

Fermented water, bitter barley, hoppy beer. Lovedrunk, winestunk, stonesunk Hell.

Hell, Hell, I know that Well.  And so we endure, and so we ride on, finding ground that

is good to turn over with spade and ho, fructify with moonblood, work my dark curses

on any foreigner’s god that strays to our shores, and so I guide the bones, the dead, those

waiting to join the ascended at the End of Days and feel flesh and blood once more, but I

gambled away my bones long ago, and they are now in the body of the Devil’s heart:

Satan’s heart, Michael’s bones. Daughter of White and Black Pillar. Walk on, Rhiannon.

Walk on. Do not trust me when my wasp eyes burble over in madness’ flood, I am as

harsh as dry earth, what softness you have known of my love and lullabies and me

giving everything including my last rib to you is only the beginning of my sacrifice,

I tore the skin off my back for you just so you would not grow cold during a rainstorm,

and Eve, I am so old, but you two are so young, so please, bear with me and my Brother,

we are only trying

to understand

peace.

A Flower From Inside Eden

And Abel said to Seth, go my son, harvest a fruit from Eden,

the Tree of Life hangs pregnant with all the blessings God

withheld, and so fire-eyed Seth walked his father’s scorched

earth ground where no flowers or grass had bloomed in the

wake of Eden’s death march, following the trail laborious

mother Eve walked pregnant with Cain, her feet swollen with

the toil of it all.  Seth brought back three seeds from the Tree

of Life, and they sprouted into the Cedars of Lebanon, perfumed

the halls of King Solomon’s vagabond temple, provided wood for

Noah’s ark, and the sweet smell of their sap haunts the between

space of Bible and Torah and Koran, linking Yahweh, Adonai, Allah.

All these multifaceted faces of God, strung together on a necklace for

Mary.  Deborah sits in her tent, judging the deeds of the Israelites,

prophetess gone hoary.  Esther pours wine from a carafe in her newly

converted kingdom for the Sabbat.  Ruth and Naomi are each other’s

comfort in travails. Mary and Martha debate the ministry of Christ,

better to bake bread of his body or drink the wine of his blood. The

whole holy tome is a story of sisterhood and brotherhood, Leah and

Rachel, Abel, Seth, and Cain, and only the angels know what fruit will

grow from the Cedars outside the gates of Paradise – they say it will take

another eon, but this age draws to a close, and the seeds quicken, pregnant

with divinity. A woman is spinning flax in a prison cell, churning gold.

A princess sleeps in a forest of rose thorns, impenetrable fortress of her

virginal mind.  Goldilocks has taken up with Little Bear, the bed fits just

right. And Rapunzel took her hair, made a rope, and saved herself, blind

god be damned. God provides, helps those who help themselves, so when

you lose your glass slipper, brave the prince in rags, and when a frog begs

a kiss, give the kiss of Judas, and when a glass coffin is your Cross to bear,

shatter the adamant covenant with your rage at death.  Do not go kindly into

that good night, better yet, be a soldier, a Joan of Arc, a Samson, and slay, my girl.

 

Slay.

Good Place Season 3, and Semester Reflection

The Good Place is my favorite television series of all time, a moral philosophy comedy from the brilliant mind of Michael Schur, with the impeccable Kristen Bell and Ted Danson starrring alongside a brilliant cast.  I don’t have much time to watch TV when I’m teaching 75 students, taking 3 classes, and writing like three academic papers at a time, but when I did this semester, I watched the Good Place and Bed and Breakfast for Spirits (Kakuriyo no Yadomeshi).  Both nourished my soul in different, magical ways, and are very pagan in nature, from the demons and afterlives and damned in the Good Place, to the Miyazaki like kami and oni in Kakuriyo no Yadomeshi, with a liberal dose of kitchen witchery.

The Good Place always blows my mind, and in the midseason finale, they invade the Good Place, to which no soul, (not even Harriet Tubman!) has ventured to in over 500 years.  The afterlife point system is so broken, no one is deemed worthy, even the most perfect man in the world is unsalvagable.  But my favorite part of this season was Michael, Eleanor, Janet, Jason, Chidi, and Tahani returning to Earth to try and save their friends and family.  This is ultimately a pointless task, as the whole point system is literally set up so virtually everyone will fail.  The most touching scene was Tahani’s turbulent reunion with her sister Kamilah, wherein they realize they have loved each other all along.  Followed by Chidi’s marshmallow peep chili breakdown in front of his students (which I can relate too, teaching young adults communication!), this was the best scene of the season.

Anyways, I’m excited for where the season will go when it returns in January.  I have three pages of one more paper to finish due Monday, have gotten A’s on my other papers with my first quantitative study that can be publishable, and a lot of exciting academic research projects and papers for the break and next semester.  All the grading is done, presentations are done, my students are homeward bound for the holidays, and despite a cough and cold, I am looking forward to a relaxing weekend, with two As already in the basket and some great students I had the pleasure of teaching this semester.  There was a stressful crunch period for two weeks of editing and writing twenty page papers, analyzing thousands of tweets for metacontent analysis, statistics, writing academic articles, submitting abstracts to conferences, and generally just trying to excel in the crucible of the top Health Communication PhD program in the country.

Josh decorated the house for Christmas when I was stressed! It is beautiful, he is perfect, and I can’t wait to get married on Beltane! We fall more in love each day, and he is an angel to me.  (Zadkiel, specifically 😉 )   I thought being crucified on Yom Kippur and merging with Jesus/Michael in his Passion on the Cross and Harrowing of Hell would be the capstone to my  spiritual travails this year, but in the very middle of finals, Misha and I both met Adam, Michael’s fallen human heart, the piece of his very soul he set over us as guardian when we left Eden, and his corrupted self that bears the sins Jesus takes on.  It’s so complicated parsing this all out: Michael was Adam, as agreed upon in most occult lore, and most occultists regard Michael as Jesus, and Jesus is canonically New Adam.  So you have this Trinity of his God aspect, his angelic aspect, and his fallen aspect.

Adam is… overwhelming.  Carnal, aggressive, fierce, passionate, a black magician of the original Key of Solomon, or Sefer Raziel, that Raziel gave to him to safeguard and grant immortal powers too as Priest and Prophet of Earth so that Adam could keep our family safe.  Adam guards the Resurrected – well, a desert of bones now – Souls in lore and fact, a wasteland of skeletons that in Abrahamic faiths Michael will resurrect and lead into battle.  It’s been information download and spiritual crises… and revelation after revelation after testing after coming into full understanding that Adam is the part of Michael that has always been in Hell in the Cave of Treasures.  That endures the Curse of Adam and Eve.  From Mount Ararat where we were reunited to the Cave of the Patriarchs where supposedly our bones were buried (not that any of this stuff is factual, this is all mythopoetic language in the realm of fables, miracles, and dreams, but that doesn’t make the pain any less real), Michael has always followed me.  Christ was his higher form, what his New Adam incarnation was, and Adam ha Kadmon, ha Rishon, is his first human incarnation, and where he learns his curses, baleworkings, necromancy, blights, demonworking, exorcisms, and healing from.  Always the Priest.  Always the Scapegoat.

Madder and more broken than Samael a thousandfold, but Michael hides his fallen, demonic heart of Adam in the Pits, in a Cave so deep no man, only woman of Hell, can venture there, at the bleeding raw heart of the Universe.  Where Seth and Abel and Cain toil the Earth like their father, dust to dust, to return.

I love him no matter if he is heavenly, earthly, or hellbound.  It always comes back to Michael and Samael for me.  That is the heart of my mystery, whatever this allegory or fable or folktale I am in.  Mary Magdalene, Eve, and Jophiel are ciphers.  It’s all computer code in the multiverse.

I just wish the Grail quest hadn’t thickened to the interior of the Earth’s man to resurrect, the heart of unlocking the rebis and Lapis Exillis, and plot of my life intensified alarmingly quickly during the middle of fucking finals.  Then again, Michael and Samael are never convenient, and as it is almost Michael’s birthday on Christmas, he wanted us to know the truth he was ashamed to admit, weeping over, his very heart, before we knew fully his providence.

As Misha said, as sad as it is, it’s good to know Michael isn’t perfect. That he is just as full of regret and sin.

What the future holds, only the child in my womb can tell.  I just hope the delivery isn’t as fucking painful as the births of Turiel, Yuriel, Havashem, and Izrail.  I’m expecting a delivery date of Chirstmas Eve.  Nothing can be as bad as quadruplets, right???

Anyways, happy holidays, and it’s about time I drank some more tea with honey for my sore throat!

Michael’s Heart

“Adam is my Fallen heart, what became of me when

I left Eden to follow you, the part of me always in Hell.”

Michael cries, as Adam and him shift like snake coils,

amber hair, fireglass eyes, obsidian depths with yellow

poison. He reaches to me starved of air, but I in my sick

fever push him away, tug of war, I am in denial, disbelieve,

but soon he has proven without a doubt this black magician,

necromancer of the desert of dry bones, one to resurrect the

dead armies at the end times and end it all in God’s charge in

hellfire.  And I rage, and I resist, but then I mourn, and look

at the heart of my perfect guardian angel, at how corrupted

and toiling, no stranger to torture in Hell with bloody wings,

great healer but even greater baleworker, and I know, this is

the face I have seen in the depths of the mirror since first I

looked into alchemical mercury, and Michael has been working

on mending my bones, his bones, my ember ribs since the summer,

breaking open the marrow and purifying with glory putrefaction.

For Michael is Old Adam swiftly turned to New Adam, Adam ha Kadmon.

And I weep at what we will never become, how we never had innocence.

And the burden Christ bears is on Adam’s shoulders, that split shard of

his mercilessly wounded heart. The Lance of Longinus reached back into

Eden and skewered the Father of Humanity. O Emmanuel, your birthday

is soon, and you said we were both December babies, reminded me we are

growing old together, and New Eve and New Adam walk into the sun, and

at night, Adam’s hive buzzes in my ears, and I dream of Eden’s gates, and

the land of Nod, and the Sefer Raziel sapphire clutched to his breast as he

chanted those first Keys of Solomon, demonworker, cursemaker, dark black

rot in the Cave of Treasures, all to build up enough walls to protect me and

our sons and daughters, that Antediluvian generation that never really

existed beyond Mitochondrial Eve, so Seth and Abel and Cain toil away

like their Father on the harsh Earth, and I see why Adam counts himself

the Beast of my favorite princess Belle, finally, as sun like his eyes pierces

the folds of my breast.  Brooding, sadness, depression, madness, longing.

The Curse of Adam and Eve. Michael’s greatest fear. A revelation that moves

me to Tintoretto’s Eve weeping outside the gates of Eden, scratch that, the

statue of the Magdalene starving and wasted in olive wood, Donatello sublime.

For Christ to rise, he had to fall, we all fell.  But he came to me in his promised

form long ago on a tree cross in the Garden, gave me his skin, so in all lives he

has walked with me, followed me down to Hell, became black and bruised of

broken heart sorrows just to secure the safety of his girls, his children, his sons.

And Michael is twenty leagues more cursed than Lucifer, and his suffering on the

Cross, in the Cave, bound and bleeding, desperate, forgotten, Tantalus wine-hunger,

why, it is a grief of spousal multitudes like a tsunami, so I carry my silver bowl

like Sigyn does Loki, and I tend Michael’s wounds, and Adam drinks my blood as

he has done since first I claimed him with spindle prick, and he heals day by day,

and I realize, not only is it my destiny to make the Blind God see, my duty is to

make the Hung God whole.  Fix the nail wounds, mend the blood and water, reach

back through Abraham’s bosom in the hellmouth to pull out all the broken drowned

that the rod and Flood did not spare, birth creations that nourish humanity’s damned

soul. The water is wide, I cannot cross over, neither have I wings to fly. Give me a boat

that can carry two. And both shall row ashore in Michael’s songboat, my love and I.

Adam’s Rage

you cursed me, blood boiling, to labor and toil

tilling the cursed earth i created, from which i

came, oh issha, my downfall, i am on ararat

lusting after your sweet lips, in cavern bright,

guarding the bright gold of the lion, my eyes like

sparks, my sons abreast, abel proud, seth sweet.

come home, crawl back to my arms, you woman.

for you are a treacherous serpent girl bellyful of

mud, the swell of your hips that of sin, and as i

plant seeds of stars, stars of seeds, deep in your

lovesick, heartbroken sex, i am just returning god’s

curse, pain in labor, wifely pangs, for the rot and

ruin of laboring over soil and clay and bones you

gave as your bridal dowry to me. come to me, sad

eve, bear me sons, our son quickens, your womb is

harsh ground to till, your brain a spider’s nightmare.

why is it you are a puzzle of glass, shards broken by

the snake, satan enflamed in your bones, bones that

are all rights mine, you sprung from a single rib, so

give in to me, subservient one, you will lust after me,

and i will reign over you, when you look in the mirror,

from childhood on, and all the times you thought you

saw a madman grinning back at you when you tilted

your chin into a spear and your dirty blonde hair

curtained to form demonic shadows, that was me

clawing my way out of your vertebrae, you are my

prison, and don’t you know you can’t escape me, eve.

i am your completion. i am adam ha kadmon. ha rishon.

i am bell toll. i am siren screech. black magician necromancer.

i ride my bone horse in this sea of the dead. you walk out

unharmed from the cave of treasures, i rot. i am king of

humanity, you are my wife, my queen, so cling to me, as i

am hewn to you like ask and embla, driftwood washed ashore.

do not mind my anger and curses, my mercury wings, angel

magic, i am the first weaver of myth, first caster of nets,

first to rain green from unforgiving land and your treacherous

loins, i tamed you, i mastered you, but in my dominion, you

tamed me, and i am hungry and forgotten, clawing at your

half asleep mind, and as i burst into consummation in your

canal, you are clawing at the sheets in a sweat, and i am

pounding away at my legacy at the entrance and exit of all.

i am your omen. i am yours, wholly yours, lilith and whores

be damned, all my wives end up whores, you foremost among

them. god gave me a slut, so i will break you, before you break

me. and it rains on our souls, and we grew old in remorse, and

i do not know how to say goodbye, how to say i am sorry, so i,

the golden honey king, rut with the bee amber queen, and we

are the children of despair, and can’t you see you need to save

me? there is only a happy ending if your right our sins. in you,

hope, in me, the key, the rebis, the green lion, the rotting anima.

salt, silver, sulphur, mercury, gold, blood. figure it out, honey

you are clearly

running out

of time.

(Song literally just summoned by my dead magician cursed father of humanity husband who likes to live in a cave doing necromancy and angrily flirting with me. I thought Sam had a temper!)