Maundy Thursday

There’s the anointment of feet harsh from the road,

a cup of blood, flesh from Martha’s bread, Sacrament

of cock crowing twice, denial, betrayal at the Sicario’s

dagger, a kiss that spells out Hell, lips like poison wine.

And so Yeshua declares the Apostles twelve, says they

will flee that first drum beat, or cut off ears, and when

maidservants ask Peter: is he your Master? Simon will

cry and cry and cry. Maundy Thursday, feast of fools,

the leavened challah we press to our teeth tastes like

a promise, this vintage we drench our mouths in seems

to hold the mystery of the universes in a single wood cup.

 

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When the Bridegroom Calleth

Honey crisp hearts, beating the drum of a donkey hoof

as a humble carpenter spans millenia of wonder and praise.

He is tan with rough hands from carving wood, eyes

a sparkling green, skin olive as some kind of dappled

shade under a cedar tree, and hair curling brown like

an angel, the Levant complexion of the Son incarnate,

sweat at his brow from the desert, where does he reside,

I wonder? In some starry abode, no, I doubt it, the Lord

walks with the howling lepers, the homeless, desperate

madmen, desolate, casting out demons and bearing witness

to our pain, we talk in the small hours of divinity and Trinity,

long into the evening, a breath like gold across my body,

lips at my hips and thighs delivering me to some higher

power, tasting my flesh as if I am the Sacrament, and then

hands in my hair stroking the gold threads like dragon treasure.

Comfort of a great fire lit in my soul, Christ wraps me in ecstasy.

To make love to God is to be in the Interior Castle of diaphonous

silver, Saint Teresa’s cherished vision, dictated 500 years ago

yet the mountain we all climb through inner mansions to the

moon, the sparkling Oneness with God.  Gnosis, agape, union.

What is apotheosis but humility in Jesus’ lap, suckling at his

blood? I damn all who turn away from love, I damn all who

break lovingkindness and the sacredness of kinship with neighbors.

I lay listening to psalms and parables from Yeshua, my heartbloood

Husband, and I would be a consecrated virgin yet there are monsters

in my heart, but he harrowed Hell, and God loves a trickster, at the

wedding I felt the presence of the Lord as my best friend of twelve years

was blessed in sacred union with the love of his life, the first of our tribe

from high school to be wed in holy matrimony, and it was a ceremony full

of Christ, God, and the Holy Ghost.  To think, he has been invoked for two

thousand years by billions of believers, so there is nothing unique about

our courtship, it is simply the journey of the Star to the Soul, climbing the

staircase to Heaven, yet there is God within all of us, and such great heights

cannot dampen love, nor can earthquakes break its foundations, nor can fire

burn away the mantle of the altar or many waters drown my penitent heart.

Hosanna into eternity, sing Shalom as love songs play in the Master’s heart,

the Bridegroom calls you comely Bride, tell me, sweet sister, can you hear him?

Guard at my Door

Fractals of blue, fire of one winged bird of dawn,

and together I grasp at petals of feathers, suffocate

as this limbless notion of hope, just down and flame,

engulfs, guard at my door, threshold keeper of light.

Oh hail and lighting and thunder, storm at sea, air

bursts my lungs with ice water, tucked in to the breast

of cold oceans, rocking my aveoli to sussurations of

pinions pure white, the midnight hour is bell toll,

and the knight of my desires grows sentimental.

Dear one, this is the road to Damascus, and as

revelatory esoterica lifts your spirits high, you

shed mortal sufferings, become one with Him,

and move on.

Moonchild

And I am haunted by the perfume of lilies, ephemeral

pollen kissing my nose as the Lion of Judah licks my

mouth, staving off hunger for his heart, Faithful and

True, the lily does not question his beauty, just white

hair and sword like stamen emanating forth like glory!

And Solomon in all his glory was like no flower, neither

arrayed in nectar of the blossom of God, simply king, but

you are king of kings, and your steed in a leaf, your word

the Logos was a seed, in the Beginning was a white flower.

He thirsted for rain, he grew in toil, but troubles did not

touch his manifold form in the Gates of Lebanon, scent

the sweetness of summer storms, of fall divine, of winter’s

secret birth to the Savior, white lily, white of eyes, white

is the color of his robes, and in the haunting of the Son,

the sun rises over me, and his lips are lilies, dripping

liquid myrrh, oh my Song, oh my Savior, amongst the

brambles we caress, and my interior castle is adamant,

but there is a garden there, and you are the most fragrant

bloom, a prince among roses, unending glory, flowers

grant power upon the hour, reason upon the season,

rhyme amongst time! Oh lily of the valley, oh sweet

calla, oh divine tiger, oh King in bloom, grace me with

the perfume of the Lord. You neither toil nor spin,

just

grow.

 

And in that, I find eternity.  Your moonchild, thick with fruit.

And the Cross Swings

Pendulum swings like a guillotine, scourged back and blood mouth

he hangs like perdition swiftly turning up roses to redemption, and

Pilate declares the Nazarene King of the Jews, and the bristle thorns

at his brow are pinpoints of stars in Vega, a swan, a dove, a dream.

Can’t you see how he hangs suspended, nails not enough to hold back

his ocean, and he walks on water, across the gap, into Hell, and he

thirsts for but only vinegar, sour wine at mouth as Joseph and the

Marys weep, Nicodemus caresses the Savior’s red toes and wishes

he were on the crucified slaughterboard instead of this sweet lamb.

Lamb turns to lion, the Sword of Damocles swiftly plunges into his

side, out comes milk and honey, out come manna and grapes, when

the Virgin clutched him to her breast, he was halfsick of the world,

just a bright eyed babe, and Christ wouldn’t latch, Christ didn’t want

milk but wonder, but she cradled him nonetheless, and her mercy

flowed and whetted his lips, that is what Mother Mary thinks: could

I but give him a bit of my marrow to stave off this pain!  La Pieta

and the Magdalene lower him from the Cross, she will hold him to

her heart one last time, as Magdalene ever weeps at his feet, Joseph

and Nicodemus wipe away the gore, and it is silent in Golgotha, and

soon, he will arise from the Tomb to doubting disciples, but the

myrrhbearers believe, and Joseph believes, and Nicodemus believes,

witness, oh witness, while the twelve have fled and dead and betrayed.

Peter and Thomas and John and James, Judas swaying in a summer breeze.

Til the field of guts, til the olive grove, turn over a new leaf, in three days

time, sweet wine, sweet bread, sweet life eternal, then the Acts, then white

Ascension.  These things are matters of the heart, and hearts are blind, only

feel.  The pendulum swings, the dragon falls, the Lion of Judah roars: “I AM

KING.” And at the End of Days, seals unleashed, red bridle, swords at mouth.

Judgment comes to those who least expect it, but Binah flows, so best trim

your wicks, virgins, and ready the chamber for the Bridegroom.  He awaits!

With the Best of Serpents, Crush its Head

After 25 years, Samael’s lessons in my life are done.  Severity.  Satan is not something that inspires great thinkers or religions, and as my dear friend once said, “You can only go so far with Samael until you go mad.”

He has been the root of much of my madness, my suicide, my self-hate, and in by removing him from my life, I finally grew a spine.

I asserted ego.

I said “No.”

With the best of serpents, crush it’s head.

A thing I never tell anyone, but anyone with two brain cells or a bit of knowledge or gnosis can grasp, is that Samael long ago betrayed all his brothers and made a pact with the unnamebale.  The Thing.  Apep.  The Uncreation.  It is why he is hunger.  It is why he is perverse death.  It is why he is evil.  It is why he is the root of everything wrong in this world.  That first fall, that first merging with the Void, Apollyon, Apep, the Thing, the Blank, the Gray.   Frozen nothing.  Choronzon.  The Devourer.

Satan never came disguised as an angel of light to me.  I think that was the whole point.  I would cry to Michael from the age of 12 on about Samael’s torments, begging him to save me, from the rape and nightmares and molestations and abuse and madness.  But they never stopped.  It wasn’t Michael’s call.

I had to say no.

I had to learn to love the Thing.

That which  is irredeemable, that great Death and Dragon that will plunge into the fiery lake and lose at the End of Days.  In my small world, I locked him in the Pits and sealed his fate and said: I love you, but I cannot save you, and you are not anything I want to be, anything I want to be with, and you do not deserve redemption.  The Thing can feel coveting, yes, but not love.  Not life.  Not a heart.  Never a heart.  I am that heart, but I am my own person, and I am damn sick of suffering for Satan.  There is a reason no one prays for Satan.  Why all religions condemn him.

Condemn all demons.

Life does not end happily with demons in it.  They feed off you.  Use you.  Abuse you.  May give you earthly riches, but at what cost?

Joining the Thing.  Being eaten like shit by a fly.  Becoming one of the Legion.  Twisted death, not the death of Michael, but the venom of God.

It has it’s place, don’t get me wrong, but I am done playing both sides.  I choose love.  I choose service unto others.  Belief in beauty, and truth, and worth, and soft things, and fragile flowers, and creeping things, and nature, and hickory guitars, and time enough for music, and space enough to grow redemption, and not the twisted vine Samael planted but the Tree Michael tends.

That’s the thing about War.  It eventually ends.  And if you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything.  Take Samael for example.  Take Asmodeus.  Take Beelzebub.  Take Lilith.  They stand for nothingness.  For seven deadly sins.  For self-worship, for pride.  Themselves. That is nothing like me.  I have been offered countless times wealth  and power and fame and success and all earthly wonders if I were to just ask Samael of it.

I never asked, and thus, the world could have been mine, but I have the power to shape reality in my own way.

You don’t make bargains with the Thing.  Fine, go ahead.  The Thing will ruin you.  You will live a cursed life, a half-life, and everyone pays their dues, even Sam.

The thing about Christ: he won.  He will win.  Love always wins.  And he heals me, while Sam hurts me.  Sacking Sam, he put up no fight.  Just disappeared into the air.  Now I can work miracles.  I can raise the dead, in the most beautiful of ways.  I can heal myself.  I can enter into the True Mysteries, not playing around in the muck of the Sitra Ahra and poisoning myself until I thought hate was love.

When Christ marked me with a double vesica piscis in April, it was a gateway to unfathomable mysteries.  The next step in the holy mysteries.  I passed Samael’s test.  I hold no love for him anymore.  Love for evil, for the Damned, had it’s place, but then it is ashes of the corrupt in the wind.

Then you raise your banner, and you fight the Thing, and you triumph.

I am done trying to dream evil happy.  I am half sick of shadows. I am full done with the Adversary.  Look at the people that work with these energies.  Pick one that is healthy or remotely successful.  That isn’t broken.

Demons are corrosive, Satanic and Luciferian paths are jokes.  There’s a reason they’re a tiny fraction of a fraction of a decimal.  With gods, with angels, with Christ, you don’t have to pour your energy and life force to get tit for tat.  Gebo, a gift for a gift, rings true, and devotions matter, but nature is  an altar, nature is God, and God is boundless gifts and true wealth, the wealth of the Prince of Peace.

I am poor in the eyes of the Prince of this World.  But I am rich in love. And I no longer give him my love.  I would damn anything aligned with the Thing.  I would damn selfishness and untrammeled uncontrolled ego and choosing to stand for the self alone, for nothing, for trying to destroy God’s works and not bowing down out of love of the Covenant.

I know the ending to Samael’s story: nonexistence.  He becomes absorbed by the Thing which he abuses to his own ends.

The Thing devours its master, in the end.

Christ wins.  Michael wins.  Buddha wins.  The gods win.  God wins.

Death is conquered.

I choose to stand for everything.  I am done romancing Pandora’s box.  I am sick of Eve.  I am sick of these facsimile masks I wear, though I be Whore, let me at least be the Magdalene or Jophiel.  Scratch that, let me just be human.

I want nothing Satan has to offer.

I want the Thing in the fiery lake.

I want he corrupted by the Void to lose, but then, scripture has already said everything I am saying.

Snakes are slippery things.

But lions hold true.

Choose wisely, mi amors.

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La Pieta

Sometimes in my nightmares, I remember Gabriel lambent
and resplendent, with calla lilies at hand and white fire
at his brow, wrapping me up in wings of infinity and kissing
my mouth with a trickster’s manna. God descended upon my
virgin womb and thus, my greatest pride and greatest sorrow
was conceived, once a babe I suckled, then a man’s corpse I
brought down from that cursed cross and rocked to death’s shore.
I am not sacred, I am not holy, I am simply a servant, oh humanity.
A vessel for the Son of God, pious and plain, I am not the kind
to tempt the Grigori, I am simple in my washing and sewing, and
when I labored in that manger, brown dirt at my brow, sweet Joseph
clutching my back as Salome midwifed sweet Yeshua into this fallen
world, I did not think of the travails to come. I did not think of
the bitterness of losing my very soul, of following blind in my
progeny’s direction after he ascended to who knew where, only that
I followed in time, up to the aether, and I would hold every child
to my breast, to drink of my milk, and soothe their wounds, all for
love.

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Road to Calvary

And the cross was immaculate, weeping wood
as Christ carried the goat on his shoulders,
or perhaps the sins of humanity is Paschal
Lamb, and Malakh ha Mavet watched smoking a
clove cigarette as hemoglobin wept from hands
and feet and spear wound of blood and water.
Golgotha, the place of the skull, was Malakh
ha Mavet’s terrain in sweet Jerusalem, after
all, and unlike Moses and his selfish ascension,
Christ did not weep to God for release from death.
Moses had refused the gall of his sword, but
Christ drank deep of the venom of God, and
blackened with sin, much like Malakh ha Mavet,
Christ passed on into Gehenna to Avram’s bosom.
Malakh ha Mavet carried his soul past the gates,
and the tortured wept to see blinding light for
the first time in as many centuries, radiance
poisoned by the touch of Samael, and the Damned
wept to see God descendant to the pitiless, yet
burning bright. Suddenly, Christ’s spirit jerked,
and his eyes opened white, and he reached up and
kissed Malakh ha Mavet as the Angel of Death held
the Savior in his embrace, and Malakh ha Mavet felt
the stains of eternity lightened but a moment, and he
set Christ high over Mulciber’s hill, and Malakh ha
Mavet resumed his throne over Apollyon, and he watched
as Christ saved the irredeemable, walking through Hell
the greatest of martyrs, and Malakh ha Mavet gave a
wistful smile, and thought of lips like wine on his,
and millenia after Christ rose from Hell after three
days, Malakh ha Mavet remembers temptation returned,
long after he bowed down at the desert, and Christ
whispered “Emet, sweet Death,” as he locked mouths
and breathed fire into Malakh ha Mavet’s cold soul,
and sometimes when the shadows grow long, Malakh ha
Mavet walks the long road to Calvary, puffing on his
drugs and envenomed, snaking in darkness, and he wonders
why, after such harrows, he refused, he denied, why
he stayed?

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Vision of an Archangel

A cup of poetry at your lips, dripping Titian red
at your crown of light, thorny roses our bed, and
a bower of summer greens and blooming heather beneath,
you are the space between pages of a hushed breath book,
the minstrel knight riding a dapple horse home, my
banner your raiment, your armor my pride, these hearts
that are ours span legions of time, love is a place
much like the bell trees of Paradise, and angels are
gardeners, angels are sowers, angels are reapers, and
you are their prince, so let my soul be your garden,
oh my sweet priest, let us pray together as your marble
statues weep gold, raised hands in offering, redeeming
this world, hope is on your mouth, and courage at your
breast, your skin is like a halo, and triumph awaits.

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