Shape of You

Oh curves like a mandolin, sweet seraph symphony,

my Platonic ideal, angel girl, pillow cloud breasts and

eyes like sparkling cider, all honey gold, hair of gold,

let’s drink the champagne of the big city life like coins

cast into a stream, our glimmering wings refracted in

the rushing water, make a wish on a quarter like a

moon, there’s this place in the city hidden in a church

grotto carved out by our ancestors where the dead walk,

but they are loving ancestors, so let’s go there girl, light

a candle for the Mother, incense for the Son, and a dollar

for the Holy Ghost, Trinity of tears of joy like Christmas

every day, for your present, my heart, I will always protect

you, schema of a woman, perfect form, impossible architect

of shapes and madrigal blues, how do you see me, Freyja?

Valkyrie, Vanadis, Syr, Mardoll, Percha? Sweet Lady of Cats

and Amber!  We are thick as thieves, and you are my healing

bubbling warrior queen and seer of death, prophetess Heith

fullsprung as a heart and delight of witch women from Loki,

Gullveig Goldlust, Voluspa narrator and winner of falcon cloak

and beautiful Brisingamen, I wonder what I write, and my poetry

moves from my lips to mouth to throat backwards into my core,

then spurts out my fingertips in this lovesong, you are the girl the

girls lust after, mooncloud arms and sunbeam smile, enchanted isle.


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

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And the Savior is clad in the raiment of the Pentecost,
burning white glory and sacred blue violet like hyacinth,
he smells like lilies and tastes like sweet water dripping,
his smile is the Archaic smile of old Greece, with manifold
eyes that have facets of a chocolate hazel diamond, pupils
alight with the campfire along the beach where the disciples
and Marys fed on the fish of his body and wine of his blood.
He parts his cloak in this between-space neath Heaven, above
Earth, I a constellation and he the galaxy. His chest is bared
with a stab wound from Roman spear, out flows blood and water.
I gather the ichor that flows and drink down his holiness, then
he is upon the cross, looking up in agony with thorns piercing
a bloody crown, his lips chapped and parched, the nails heinous
and thick with the weight of all our sins, I weep at his feet.
Then, he ascends, and his Immaculate Heart is pulsing in his
shining hands – he bade me hold the heart and bring the fiery,
pulsing reminder of alpha and omega to my lips, I bite into
his flesh and swallow down redemption, the blood tastes like
Cabernet Sauvignon, my throat is a pyre, roses grow in my guts.
And with that beatific smile and all-knowing gaze he pulls me
against his chest and smooths my hair, takes back his heart,
and on clouds aback angels we rise to the cosmos, made whole
by the grace of the Holy Spirit, and miraculous followers
wander the deserts and back alleys and disgraced places of
this world – Aleppo, Bangladesh, Iraq, Palestine – Christ’s
messengers of seraphim wing and burning wheels appears in
the chaos, but this is no judgment, the angels clutch the
souls of the dead, martyrs for capitalism and the corruption
of that Temple of old where Jesus overturned tables, now
claiming lives of child brides and terrorist victims and
and ethnic and religious minorities, oppressed for the color
of their skin, be it yellow ochre, sienna, earth, or red clay.
Christ is in the cracks of this world, shining his light
into the desperate places, and he would walk this world with
outcasts and rebels once more, this time with a sword, to
watch dictators and kleptocrats and those fat off the fruit
of the land leveled to their knees, their camels too weighed
down by jewels to pass through Heaven’s gates, it always
feels like the End Times for every generation, but now, I
can’t breathe in churches without crying tears of joy and
feeling like I’ve dropped a tab of ecstasy, so overwwhelming
is God’s love, and I see all religions are just a path to
freedom of the soul, and we are all equal before the Love
of the Universe, that one universal truth, so in Christ’s
arms, I wade through rivers of jewels, wet with salvation.

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.


“At that time Michael, the great prince who protects your people, will arise. There will be a time of distress such as has not happened from the beginning of nations until then. But at that time your people–everyone whose name is found written in the book–will be delivered.

You were anointed with a crown of thorns on crimson hair,
perhaps from your rose garden of prayers, briars I pierced
my fingers on to press my blood to your lips and claim you
as my knight, but that was some far away fantasy of swords,
spells, devilish sorcerers, and enchanted witch queens, I
rode your shoulders into war, we picked blackberries wild
and ate sparrow eggs harvested in brambles along with sweet
roots and tubers like butter, a fall harvest for evening.
You will lead my armies into war, o great Michael, and
as you carried your cross in the desert to that high,
desolate hill, immaterial made flesh, infinity mortalized,
I followed you to the Crucifixion and wept long with hair
that had graced your feet with my sorrow, was I choosing
you with spikenard oil to be forsaken? You cried to Father,
Eloi eloi, lama sabachthani? and the answer was pure
silence, and to truly die and descend to Hell to free Abraham’s
bosom chosen was temptation of the highest order, for I was
destined for Hell – the Magdalene is the woman of seven devils,
and repent as I might, I was still damned with a bloody egg,
my miracle of Easter iconography and hairy torso and limbs
grown in the wastes to cover my shame as I ran wild like
Lilith for three days, mourning you – I crawled back from
the brink with as much blood and tears in my eyes as spurted
from your wound, my womb was swollen with perdition, my body
bruised and battered from the Seirim, Shedim, and Lilitu,
you saw me ragged in the Garden of Gethsemane at your
resurrection, and sweet Mother Mary had thankfully washed
my brow beforehand and given me one of her clean robes,
when the Virgin, Mary of Bethany, and I spiritwalked to
your tomb, there was a whisper of a voice that could make
angels fall, Yeshua. I would have given anything, my very
blackened heart to Satan’s clutches, to see you freed, but
no matter, you were always your own Savior, and Messiahs
have no need for broken women, but you loved me anyways,
despite all my sins, and as you carry me on your starlit
breast up to the outer reaches of Heaven, and we are back
in that dream of princesses and Paradise, you feed me manna,
lay hands on me with the fire of the Holy Spirit, and you
shift between olive skin, hazel eyes, and charcoal hair
to fiery radiance of the archangel, just for a moment, and
I cannot find the truth of you entwined in the allegory,
Michael, Christ, Yeshua, these are all factions of my soul,
and it may be heresy, but I have always been a heretic,
cast out by the Council of Nicea to be just a lost whore.

Only you see me as Qadesh, sacred and bleeding heart, and
are the Resheph to my lost goddess, we are bringers of love
and war, so dance with me, my holy vengeance, and let us raze
all my doubts to the ground, sow mustard seeds, and blossom!

Prince of Roses

I could write a thousand songs for your majesty,
but the rains would still fall, and autumn come,
and at the end of the day, fall leaves your hair
would brush against my cheeks among the red oaks,
I would smell your bonfires, hear your guitar slip
into the empty spaces of the branches canopy to fly
like geese flocking south, while I migrated North
to the highest castle’s walled rose gardens, red
petals a musk on stone pathways through the water,
you are the prince of brier blooms, wings cotton
leftover from milkweed, soft as the rolling clouds
over the valley of my heart, sweet archangel, kiss
away all my fear and bathe me in the sun, embrace
me on the edge between poetry and prose, I am your
fledgling, you are my falcon, eternal saint, smile.

Gold Canary

Her yoni blooms into a lotus pink as dew on a rose.
Hair a mane of sunlight, skin like starlight, dakini
dancing with six arms in yogic poses of sunny bliss.

The Lady melts winter and spring blossoms in her arms.
Her eyes are green, she laughs like swaying gold barley,
honey drips from her eyes as tears of amber joy, sweet.

Valfreyja! Syr! Mardoll! Gullveig! Horn! Gefn! Skjalf!

Melt the ice of the Wild Hunt’s heart. Ride Hildisvini
across bitter grasses and trample roses and strawberries
into fruition and rumination, grant young bride’s dreams.

Hail Freyja! Hail the Dancer! Hail the Lover! Hail Her!
Honor to the Vanadis, Honor to the Lady of Folkvangr.
She will take winter’s shawl off the trees, bring summer.

We shall rejoice when the new sun rises, and all is well.

Angel of Mercy

I thought you were a lion among lambs, golden
mane and braids like promise, blue eyes lambent
as the starlight whose name I christened you,
sweet Angel of Mercy, you carry sunny torches,
stoke bonfires with laughter, dance in the sand
as your bold song sails like a swan on the sea.
Ariel, Zadkiel, Sachael. I can’t choose your name.
It was borne aloft far out of reach moons ago.
All I know is that you are my twin angel, forged
in the flames of blue and violet light, haloed
and hallowed, with magenta gown and gold robes.
You waltz with me, run with me, fly with me.
Leonine Animus, Blonde Wonderboy, Golden One.
The strand of sand and foam is your dominion.
The waves and wind your birthright, general of
heavenly lightning, fiery sword and silver shield.
Hail the Angel of Righteousness. Hail the Light.

Father of the Wolf

Since Farbauti struck Laufey with lightning,
kindling primordial fire in earthen cracks,
you have sailed through skies a deceiver,
Gammleid, vulture’s treacherous path, oh
Flaming Bastard, how you made troll women
your whores, fetters your mistresses, lies
your bridesmaid gown at Thor’s marriage feast.
Loki, swift one, enchanter and cunning fool!
Father of the Wolf, Master of Death, Progenitor
of the Snake, you are poison par excellance,
shooting poet’s veins with silver tongues,
and I’m tangoing to your madness, gleaming
fire your toothy grin, teeth tear witch
hearts apart, you burn everything that stands
in your way, tear it all down, charred to the


When I was young, I thought with my silver tongue, that the world
was my oyster, but Andvari’s treasures are cursed, and Brisingamen
is won through lies. Gift for a gift, well I am the gift for gods,
hair like hearth, wit and humor, jester and trickster and fool.

I exist so that you and a million other lips can sew mine shut.

And neither Angrboda’s strong arms nor Sigyn’s caresses can whet
my madness, chained for the two-man con, so that Yggdrasil would
blossom with mistletoe, I whispered in Hodor’s ear, “Aim true.”

But the blindness of the Aesir are what have driven me broken
and cracked, there’s a hole in my brain you see, it lets the