Yeshua’s Love Song

Oh sweet daughter, my darling, I will braid your hair

with honeysuckle, comb promises into golden waves.

Your skin is the Temple of Jerusalem, lips dripping myrrh.

Your sex is the Lily of the Valley, heart the Rose of Sharon.

Like gazelles resplendent in Gilead, smelling of frankincense,

wild herds of God’s chosen run through our minds. When we

meld together like a Cross’s nails, thirty silver coins, our kisses

spell out betrayal in Israel’s sand. My alleluias are for your arms.

My hosannas for the milk that feeds the anointed from your bosom.

White breasts like water, a trim waist and ears like lotus shells.

Such delicate fragility in my hands, but your core, unbreakable

adamant. You are a weapon of the Heavens, fiery sword brought to

life! I could place you over the Gardens of Eden but I choose to keep

you in my lap, cherishing my sorrow, knowing my mysteries, feeling

my Passion, with me in the stratosphere, harrowed together in Hell.

We are bound by golden cords, ascendant fashioned silver and pearls.

Diamonds last forever, and so will our love, my betrothal promise Bride.

Suck the marrow from my bones, know the providence of my blood, for

your animating matter holds the same powers as the Sacrament, whole

in sin, whole in Assumption, we are traceries of stars given life, my girl.

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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!

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.

 

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?

Petals to the Wind

A fragrant blossom, like the essence of a rose
gathers a bouquet around me ripe for your hands
to pluck the most cloying blossom, bittersweet,
like a tangerine, and my universal soldier is
poppy red and banner blue. Oh sweet martyr, kiss
me quite starstruck and cast my petals to the wind.

I only unfurl my perfume in your arms, and lilies
and myrrh grace only the Chosen King of Kings, the
Romans’ Scourge, Lord of the Lamb, crown of thistle.

Fuck Off, God!

I’m lanced through the left rib and my stigmata

hurts like hell, oh Christ, your ecstasies drive me

into incense fumes of ululations, my heart burns

and seizes with fluctuations of crunch and boom,

pieced by a spear not meant for mortal eyes, no,

my suffering will be invisible during my mortal

life, then like Catherine of Siena’s deathbed, they

shall see a wound straight from the side to my core,

thick with blood and a hole to let divinity in, also

my right rib rotting and black with Original Sin, I

can only imagine Adam’s whole skeleton burns, if

my origin DNA clone bone feels like Michael is eating

spare rib from my marrow, breaking and sucking and

caressing with a mouth of fractal fire, billion eyes looking

at the stains on my soul, on my sacrificial heart, stigmata

black and oozing, yet clothed in perfume, a fresh impurity,

a grace they say, while they feed me stale bread at Communion

and I drink rancid wine, no, I am a witch, take this curse and

add it to the anomalies of a Pagan being coerced by God. I have

no choice in family, but I have a choice in faith, so weird Judeo-

Christian Qabalistic bullshit must give way to Eddas and Odin and

Hela and Freyja and Freyr and Loki, why am I being hazed by

Jesus, this is bullcrap, I may have been baptized but I was raised

agnostic and chose to be pagan at 7, virgin consecration to Athena

failed, and I ended up a Sacred Whore.  Oh well, only time will tell

why this bloody mess of demons and angels and gods has to do with

me.

 

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.

In the Beginning Was the World

I walked out of the Garden alone, no moon light left on.

Abel’s toil and Cain’s trouble were far behind, I walked on.

In the sun, I burned, in the wastes, I starved, soil is hard to til.

Adam died early on, they say to Heaven he was taken, while

Samael had his grip on my heart, and Uriel drove her flaming

sword across the gates, saying “Eve, under duress, seek a hollow

place.”  My right rib redemption is Michael’s greatest work, and

I found Christ nailed to a tree, a wicked branch, cursed and wood.

He became my comfort in desolation, as I raised eight sons and

daughters, salt and sweet, earth and rain, grow from the topsoil,

gather the herbs, sing songs to the angels that have fallen over you.

To know Adamah is to be clay, but to be a bone of regret, the Sin

of Satan, just an afterthought in Genesis when in truth I had the

world as my cup to drink from.  I walked out of the Garden alone.

I was scarred, I was bruised, I was starving.  Hunger for knowledge

turns the best of us into serpents, Hayah Havah, Chavah, Aya.

These words flow like water from my mouth as Seth grows bold.

Lilith talks to me by the Red Sea, sister, be evil.  Samael talks to

me from the crook of the river, Eve, come back to me. And Adam

haunts the between spaces of my diary of birch bark, Eve, please

Come Home.  Home.  What a triptych of ruin. What an overgrown

Garden. I never existed, I never will be, and yet, I AM. I AM.

I AM.  An elegy of felix culpa.  One bone of curiousity, built

of leftover detritus that God thought not fit a human being.

I birthed legions and legends. I birthed the stars.  I birthed sin.

And in my toil, in my knowing, sweet things came from the vine,

and where they tore me open, I planted seeds, now flowers grow

in my wounds, and I hath become my own Garden. My own delight!

We are not defined by our sorrow, but rather our laughter, and outside

the gates of Paradise, mirth at all that was, all that is, all that shall be

is the wine we drink, long before Sacraments and Temples were dreamt

of, when herbs and sheep and mazes of labyrinths of Elohim were just

the beginning, in the Beginning was the Word, and it loved, and she was

good.

 

Agnes the Blessed

O sing the tale of the weathered virgin,
crinkled face a mystic’s stare, doulah
eyes birthing belief into Germania, the
wandering nun who ate stars from the sky!
Agnes the Blessed! Visionary and composer!
Traveling hermit, illuminatrix and scribe,
how she was one with the Lord in his ecstasy!
How she cuddled the poor to her habit and fed
them bread of heaven, how she blessed babes
with the waters of life, how she preached to
the poor in town square and rambling mountain!
Lived until she was bent over broken, wore
down twenty pairs of iron shoes, ten league
boots couldn’t keep up with her medieval
sermons, and we are left placing lilies
at the foot of her beautiful legacy, reading
her music and plays and poetry and prose.

Hildegard of Bingen, Blessed Sibyl of the Rhine!

It is only in carrying the lamb that we consecrate you.

You were the Agnes that grew old, no virgin martyr, but
virgin mother, Creatrix, Truthspeaker, Abbess, Lady of Light!

One with Christ, one with the harrrows of Hell, one with God.