Constellations of the Kabbalah

So I have now officially lost both my wedding rings that I gave to Michael and Samael in dreams in Fall 2016 – my silver amethyst ring I proposed to Michael with drunk in Heaven in his Red Palace, and the titanium Roman numeral ring I gave to Samael two years ago in September in a rather Halloween wedding in a graveyard with Samael dressed as Alucard and Beelzebub as the best man.  Usually Loki is the best man, but maybe he was busy.  Or too high and bi to function.

Anyhow, it’s time for something fun!  I always get my tattoo ideas from dreams, and last night I dreamed I went to a tattoo shop with Mischa and Samsiez and got ring tattoos in honor of them.  For Sam I got a black sun drop, kind of a black outline with blank space then a black filling, with Polaris wrapping around my left pinkey, which is traditionally his pagan face’s star and constellation as the King of the Gods and the North at Harran when he was worshiped as Shemal/Nergal.  As for Mischa, I got a white sun (black outline with full blank space) and then the constellation Orion wrapped around my right pinkie.

I woke up sooooo stoked!  I never really care about losing rings – obviously I would care if it was my engagement ring, but an inexpensive amethyst ring might need to go to someone in need.  Just like I found Hela’s silver ring in a waterfall in the Appalachians from presumably a dead man’s widow tossing it into the flow of the river.  That’s what I always figure when I lose things – someone in need finds it.  Give a ring, get a ring in a waterfall.  It’s fully powered and blessed by Michael, but his rings usually turn up in odd places around my house.  Only other places it could be were at the movie theater or in my car.  I’m losing tons of weight so the rings keep slipping off!  Their rings I dedicated to them are a reallllly old German gold, diamond, and black star sapphire centerpiece ring for Samael and a garnet, gold, and big fire opal my uncle got from Australia for Michael.

Last spring, I dreamed I went to a tattoo parlor in Asheville, NC while we were visiting and Sam was with me and we got Berkano picked out to go on my right forearm.  Right now I have Ingwaz and Samael’s Grimoire of Armadel sigil on my left, and Michael’s Grimoire of Armadel sigil on my right, with space below it for Berkano to complement Freyr’s Ingwaz.  I’m extremely Vanic in nature and a huge devotee of Freyja, and Freyr is my patron God, hence him being my first rune tattoo.  I also want to get the Chi Rho symbol for Christ on my left shoulder, but that’s all I have planned out picked directly out by spirits!

Not divinely inspired, I was thinking of putting my matron deity, Hela, on my left bicep, then get a matching Freyja as a Valkyrie on my right bicep, but I’m definitely not set on that and I kind of like it when spirits pick out my tattoos for me.  I want to be covered in tattoos in twenty years.  Symbols, sigils, runes, occult shit.  One or so each year!  I’m addicted, it’s true, I love the feelings of tattoo guns and the painful pleasure.  It puts me into a trance!

Anyways, I gotta call my tattoo artist now.  Goodbye!



Who watches the Watchman?

Who keeps her safe at her tower?

Who gives her power upon the hour?

And reason upon the season?

And peace a golden fleece?

The luminaries turn, adrift

we have the dance of clock ticks.

And the Guardian kisses sweet

to the bones of her meat.

Lost days, long nights, heaven rain.

And never a lover without pain.

Harvest Haunting

Snow on the ground, a crisp pie crust of ice

coats the sidewalk, tufts of dry grass frozen.

I cling to my fiery demon for warmth in winter,

his iron fur drawing wounds on my hand, scraping

the second snake skin away from me as harvest

elicits raw rebirth. The corn stalks outside town

are all trimmed down, felled to the farmer, and

as my dragon curls around me, his eyes rubies,

I am choking on smoke but it is like a bonfire,

and hickory sweet, and I embrace my bane and

love with the strength of a thousand lionesses.

We are an ourouborous of enigmas, Nachash

and Chava, Queen of Life and King of Beasts.

Yes, Samael, I remember the Garden, you walking

in Eden besides me when we were both quite young,

I with my naked wonder at Creation, you eager to

prove yourself in any way you could, just to hold me

forever in awe of your shining enchantments, but peace

cannot last, and the burden of Hell is heavy, but I will

carry water for you from the well at the Tree’s roots and

wipe the blood of the Slain from your brow, I am succor

ten leagues below, twenty miles frozen, a million acres

dead. Don’t you know I bleed into your rotting mouth so

you can know something of celestial fire? We are both

burning up, my Beast. This wicked punishment of exile

weighs heavy on our shoulders, but we have children to

raise, and Cain was a blessing from God, no matter what

these humans tell me, our Son grew proud and tall, and

now we have all of humanity with the fire of your fruit

ingrained in their very flesh, all because I ate your heart,

became your Terpsichore, madrigal moon girl, a ballerina

in a music box in your ribs, and my sinful belly is full

of the Holy Ghost, and I am the answer, and you will be

Blind God only so long as it takes me to untangle Gordian



End of the world tidings, a tithe to Hell

angels know well to abandon their post.

We are refugees repentant, drowning horses

as we cross rivers of tears, barren desert where

once cities flourished, now backwater trading

posts of diamonds and blood, I etch my Trail

of Terror on the lines of trees, eat locusts and

foul honey, wonder if the gods can see me?

It is Holocaust Sunday, Crystalnacht Eyes.

And the lies, the lies, these puppet men made

headlines of guillotines and shadows, politicians

are only as good as the bread of the dead, and they

have legions of slain in their wakes, but now the

corpulent frauds starve, and grit and nail girls

walk on, little sisters in hand, village elders in

memoriam, new medicine from bones of earth.

We come to the beginning of the end, and I turn

the page in my birch bark diary, and on angel

wings and demon pinions I fight back the fallen

egregore of this age, fat off the milk of the land.

Gore, wounds, limbs splain, but I press on to kill

the inequity, the hate, the slander, the destroyers.

The faithful hide behind barbed wire, the purple

sky isn’t big enough for us all, and down falls the

progeny of Satan, and red dawn comes fruitful

as sin, so to the earth, so to children, so to rain.

Maybe there is hope through the haze, it’s just

that, in the midst of the smoke, we feel invisible.

And screams meld with sirens meld with volcanoes.

When the bombs go off, hold my hand, and remember:

we are mighty.

Where It All Went Wrong

Michael often wonders where the house of cards fell under a butterfly wing flap, what joint of the celestial body was the weak link.  Was it Lucifer’s desire to suck the marrow out of the bones of the abyss?  Was it Asmodeus’ lust for the daughters of men?  Was it Beelzebub’s martial ambitions to rival Michael’s own?  Once, he would say, these brothers of his were as close as the pulse of his heart.  But Lucifer became Samael, and fire turned to ash, and he is left with a third of his sisters and brothers damned for all time on blood money, as the song goes, only they were the prototypes of Judas, selling the ineffable name of God out to the humans in the form of a shiny poison apple.

Evil roots.  Evil is a lindworm gnawing at the tap root of the Sephiroth.  And then there is death of Da’ath, and then there is the Qliphoth, and then there is the madness of the prophets bridging the Tree of Life and Tree of Death.  So evil roots into the hearts of man, Samael’s seed blossoming in witchfire, and the questions of what Hayah Havah means is echoed in the barracks of a million mortal armies.  Why do we bleed out for dictators and crackpots, dying on the streets of gang warfare and drug wars and turf wars and falling like flies to school shooters?  Lucifer turned the entirety of the universe into a battlefield, and not even the babes are safe from the evil that he planted, that dry grape vine of the vintage most vengeful.  Sometimes, the plants of filth and zuhama climb up the Sephiroth and root in Michael’s rose garden in Machon.  He takes his flaming sword and swiftly cuts down the defiant black blooms.  Rotting alive, thirsting after Heaven even after the rebellion.  Samael likes to remind Michael that he is watching.  All he really would have to do would be to call, send a messenger, but Samael likes to be flagrant in disregard for protocol, sauntering to the Gates of Heaven, which he cannot enter (or can he?) and throw paper planes with profanities over Saint Peter, enchanted to reach Michael as he is trying to relax.  Sam was always annoying like that.

Where did they go wrong?  Their bridge failed miserably.  She died in the first war, of cherubim swiftest wing, Herald of Hell, Watchman of God, Heaven’s original covert mission and spy with sympathies towards Hell.  Jophiel to Michael, or Zophael as she preferred to call herself, was always flighty, and without Samael to keep her in check, she grew wild, mad with grief, for to lose the one who gave her wings (Michael gave her her breath and heart, well, her first one at least.  Samael would claim even that in time) made Jophiel erratic.  She saved Michael’s life, yes, but at what cost?  Dissension between the twins.  A bridge burned.  She was created out of beauty, yes, but she brought pain to the garden, and she was the first of martyrs, Lucifer be damned.

Now the bridge is broken, and Taninver rides the Shekinah, and this world is not right.  This world is broken and cruel, and she is gone, out of reach, so in love with the idea of martyrdom she has made herself a sacrificial soul.  Michael has offered her Assumption twice now but she chose Samael, she always chooses him, over salvation, for she says, if her brothers and sisters who art in Hell, who Zo grew to close to when faking allegiance to the Prince of Darkness, only to blaze onto the battlefield in the glory of betrayal as Michael’s standard bearer, this guilt Zo feels at double-timing, at being an angel in hell, at leaving that third behind to rot, it makes her mad and bad and dangerous to know.  She thinks the mem can be cleansed, when really, nothing can separate wheat from chaff but the fiery lake, and that is where he belongs, at least, Michael thinks.  Otherwise he would not have asked her to abandon Earth on Easter and Good Friday for Heaven and endless Paradise.  Your penance is done, this self-imposed exile of the Watchtower Girl, he was trying to say, but it came out  in parables and scraps of starlight, and Michael grows weary of trying to save her, of trying to convince her Samael is not worth saving, so instead he just makes love to her and heals her wounds the best he can, the wounds his brother inflicts, that first spear through the heart and that last rape of the soul, all but for knowledge, all but for Samael to declare his own Hayah Havah, on Chavah no less, when he is but Yah the snake.  Snakes are slippery things, egotistical at that, but Zo is a dragon and general mother of Heaven’s battlefield, and she has not forgotten her loyalties.

Her very core belongs to Michael, and for Samael to give her his heart, means his damned brother is also under God’s love and sway.  The cardiophore chooses who is redeemed in the end, anyway, if Sa’el is left standing or if the pale rider turns into oblivion.

All hell would follow after him, were she to figure out this puzzle.

Michael does not have faith he deserves redemption.

Michael does not think she can.

Michael is weary, and Michael

no longer


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Mother Mary

O Angel of the Lord, you are a burning bush of temptation,
to think I, humblest of all virgins, just engaged to sweet
Joseph, would bear in my untouched womb a Son! You are so
comely, sweet Gabriel, smelling of myrrh and frankincense,
and your body is alight with glory, strung with stars your
skin, curls of brown hair, eyes like linden trees, sweet
cinnamon your breath and saffron freckles your blessing
and kiss of life. You say I shall be remembered forever,
that I will wander in Eve’s curse of labor to deliver up
the Prince of this World, in a manger, my midwife my sister
Salome, and only Joseph shall dream your pronouncement, and
I will be seen as wanton, o archangel, why is this my cross
to bear? What penitence or holiness has my simple flesh done
to play host to the all-consuming love of God? The Spirit moves
me, see how the lust of God dances in your eyes, and you carry
the seed of Yahweh, sweet Gabriel, a pure desire of Flood waters,
the spirit of the Lord comes over me as you take me up to a field
in the Heavens and we turn hay, we are hands roving and mouths full
of manna and sunshine, the sweetness and lovingkindness of your
lips singing hosanna into my tongue, I taste your skin and it is
snow, which I have never seen in Nazareth. The Northern traders
have told me of snow, pure as your lilies, and cool and welcoming.
Let your storm of ice and winter embrace my vulva, sweet Gabriel.
Conceive in me our Son. He shall bear your likeness. He shall hunt
gazelle and work wood and be a mad mystic of outcasts and fallen.
He will lift us all up to the Heavens like you, my Son will be the
trampler of the serpent, just as you trampled the doubts I was fit
to be the temple of our dear fearless Lord, O Gabriel, you stir in
my loins feelings of need so great they are a burbling river, and
oh Gabriel, you have made me a woman, and you have made me the most
preeminent amongst saints, a prophetess and visionary, and when we
join, I remember the love our Lord had for Moses and Elijah, and
I think, you have appeared to many before, but none have you taken
into your arms. I love the Lord, I love you, my Strength of God.
Touch me and make me worthy, kiss and caress away my sins, anoint
me with your dew, I will be singing your praises until my death, O
sweet one, brave one, trickster, lover, messenger, angel, my wings!

Thus was my Son conceived, in Heiros Gamos, and I shall bury my Son.

No mother will mourn as much as I, and no lady will be as holy.

My path from now on as the Holy Ghost claims me, be born in me,
O Lord, is one between salvation and the fires of giving in.

I will succor you, sweet Child of mine. I will be your foundation.

And many mothers in travails will come after me, and many have died
before in labors most gruesome, but you are easy on my womb, and to
bear the stars in your belly, the cosmos in your eyes, is miraculous

Yod He Vau He, sweet Israel’s husband. Come into this world and meet
your bride, be my sweetest victory and humble Babe, Sweet Redeemer.

All twelve years of my life have led to this moment of conception.

Gabriel, bless our Son. Lord, bless our Child. Life, bend to your Bridegroom.

He rides a white horse, he rides a donkey, he carries asps and waters sweet.

Tame my doubts and please, by Asherah and El, make me a fit mother for a King!

Better Man

Your hair is the color of tangerines and roses, I think
as I nuzzle your chest (I barely come up past your waist),
and you are holding me fast, hands massaging my back as
you press the Word of God onto my forehead with a mouth
of flowers, this space is holy, this room is almighty,
the inner sanctum of the Prince of Heaven, a blue monk
cell where angels have fallen into the perdition of love.
But you, Michael, are immaculate, and as your opal wings
lift me up to the slim, martial bed, to sit on the pallet
you barely fit into, all ells tall and burning eyes, just
stuffed into this facsimile of man and bird, your cloudy
robe is rippling with secrets, the rose garden of prayers
you tend beyond the doorway is brimming with fire desires,
all the penitent and sinful whispering your Father’s name,
oh you, my savior, my Yeshua, we kiss like rain on a river,
an endless stream of elegies and hosannas, and when you
lay me down to make love like a lion cradling a lost lamb,
I get the image of the beast of god picking up innocents
(me) by the wool of their neck and lifting them out of
floodwaters to safety. Your hands are scorching, but your
tongue is water, and your skin is the stuff of sage dreams.
What a beautiful morning awakening, to be with my beloved.
Pressed to your breast like a Hand of Fatima, I ward off
your sorrow, and you lift my spirits, and in each other,
we find an ocean of healing, oh sweet, glorious archangel,
carry the oil of anointment to the prophets, walk the walls
of Jericho and blow your horn, stand on the Mount of Olives
and declare, God has ascended, this is the time of reckoning.
But what is reckoning and revelation? Just celestial gossip.
The truth of God is love, and the truth of Christ is beauty.
You serve the mighty and fallen, the strong and forgotten,
only, you forget no one, carrying the weight of all on your
scarred shoulders, and Michael, when you smile and laugh,
all the seven heavens shine with the brightness of your sun.

I would pledge my troth to none but you, my pearl of great
price, and you are the bread multiplied to feed the masses.

We eat of each other’s body and know redemption, and the
path to Paradise begins in your arms, so hold me close,
and ascend.

Bride of Christ

And I am cloaked in clouds and the sun’s beaten gold,
radiant in redemption, but under my gown, scars feast
I am the battered soul on the path to Christ, woman
of seven devils who sold herself for cheap beer and
the spark of a stranger’s touch, whoring out all my
compassion until I was a waterless well, and Satan
made his nest in my soul, from sphincter to sphincter
a serpent twined through my guts – but the Savior does
not care about Brazen Serpents – He reached into my
lonely hell and burned away the black, now I am a star
shining above silver seas and walking stairways to
heaven, to those pearly gates where the Bridegroom
awaits, He who washes away sins in Seas of Galilee,
I Migdal Eder, Watchtower of Women, scout, watchman,
when we kiss at the altar after vows of eternity,
green returns to the barren land of my mind, He is
balm to cracked hands dry from working as a slave,
a salve to the sacrificial soul, all my travails
brought me to this one clarion moment – forgiveness
I am unworthy, yet He loves me, so in His arms, I am.

Guiding Lights

And the darkness sheds like a snake skin,
revealing firefly lights in your eyes, two
brothers of the rosy cross, white and black,
lava and flame, ministering to me with poems,
touching my form like infernal and eternal
fires from the black and white sun apiece,
my angel and demon hold watch, carry me up
Jacob’s Ladder, a string game I used to play,
from the Devil’s pulpit to archangel’s wings,
love is a funny thing, and you are my compass.