Godly Hands

The hands that caress, chosen King
Lord of all the living things, crown
of sun, Satan undone, rings of ruby,
blood of Jordan, over Death won, gold
the creamy white on trim, Lord of men,
clutching book of holy law, words heard
in Church from the Father our God.


Green Lady

17_Hermaphrodite_with_title_2Green Lady, Green Lady, what do you see?

Tis my pelican bleeding in the alchemical tree.

Green Lady, Green Lady, who births your Sun?

My Son is the fruit, the Green Lion undone.

Green Lady, Green Lady, whose mirror do you hold?

My Daughter, my Daughter, it is Gabriel’s fold.

Green Lady, Green Lady, why you beast down below?

Because gold has fangs, and from my milk, Blood flows.

Green Lady, Green Lady, what will I become?

The Flower of Hell, unfortunate one.

Green Lady, Green Lady, for whom shall I blossom?

Twelve wings minus one hour, King of Heaven.

Green Lady, Green Lady, why do you circle like time?

Because, my Daughter, I am beyond Reason and Rhyme.

Green Lady, Green Lady, I bid you good night.

Sleep well and wonder, what is gold’s delight?

Fairytale of New York

He takes my hand, and the unimaginable pull of gravity

draws me through the mires of the crowd, he comforts

lepers and demons alike, carrying crosses of the bleeding

masses on his shoulder, a young paralyzed man, a blind

beggar, all pulled to his bosom in burning love. Christ is

all lion riding a donkey, majesty bound by humility, and

there’s a promise of Christmas in his eyes, and the way

he cradles my fingers against his in a fisherman’s net,

we walk through snowy Manhattan, under brownstone

arches, past the homeless he shelters, past the churches

that sing out his praise, and he would have me as his,

but I am not a disciple, just a trickster fleeing entrapment,

and my throne is not God’s lap, is a far cry from hopeful

white evenings laced in icicles, and though his coat warms

me and when we kiss in front of the gallery on Broadway,

there’s this lingering need for me to know, all endings cost

blood, adoration of the mystical lamb, spurting fonts of arteries

in the Holy Cup, and as his birthday draws close, winter wonderland

rings bells out for Christmas Day, and he carries me in his arms back

to my fallen art museum, where the demons engage in midnight

revelries, and the last thing I remember upon waking mid-morning

is carpenter’s palms caressing mine, and lambent eyes of wood, green

hazel, hair wet with frost, and a Yule blessing on this the first day of cold.

And the Garden Rotted

Apples rot in Fall, seasons turn Winter’s bone

Adam I have never met, all I remember is a

body count, dead sons and daughter, lost husband.

Satan rots, Michael weeps, God is Dead and Broken.

I wander. I walk on. I must endure. Through Heaven

and Hell, come millenia upon millenia, trickster, I chart

a path through the unknown, hurricane my heart, treasure

in my chest, and not Cain’s eyes at my breast nor Abel’s sucklings

nor Seth’s divine providence nor God’s burning sword stabbing me

straight through, that first time I was betrayed, that third time, the millionth

time the men failed, from the thrones in the abyss and starry kingdom, I birthed

new palaces, and I carried my burden, and I wept, but I was a warrior, and I bled gold.

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?


And David sang Hallelujah for the Almighty,

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost – two out of three

have stolen my blood and bone and vision,

the Mother, the Lamb, yet Yahweh is Deus

Absentia (or is he, Deists be Damned?) The

Ghent Altarpiece shows the King of Kings,

and He terrifies me, I brim with hesitance,

when I am swept up into rapturous melody

and the fire of the Presence, like Moses and

burning bush, like the white of the Savior and

pure glory blazing with the musk of the stars,

the phallic lingam that pierces my heart in some

kind of flowering love song about myrrh dripping

lilies and rose thorns that penetrate witch’s spleens.

What awaits in the interior of the Earth?  What is

in the sulfuric chamber of Caligrosto’s apple snake arrow?

Michael and Samael united in the Green Lion are bleeding

gold from the sun, but how much ichor does He have before

the seas rise, and the climate boils, and methane and carbon

raze the pitiful human populace to ash?  We have forty years,

exactly, until the Rapture, or maybe it’s twelve, or four, or three.

Maybe it’s already Rapture, maybe we didn’t notice the dead.

And the End is but a breath and then swords at mouths and

sisters take brothers and mothers take sons and incest and

bloodshed and Grigori eating the babes reigns in havoc and turmoil.


(I am running out of time.  How do I climb the mountain burning hearted alone?)

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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And then? The rains came, and life rejoiced,
and splendid souls, in yellow galoshes, like
baby ducks, splashed puddles of eternity, and
the heart floods blessed the playa, and blood
and water redeemed, and the brain knew the body,
and the sky cleft the earth open, and the God
and Goddess made passionate bliss, and all the
humans round Earth’s lonely orbit knew, to be
alone is to be holy, but when it storms, lightning
races between us, and we shed nunneries for carnal
delights, and as the bread of life turned hay,
and it downpoured, and by moonlight thunder struck,
so I go on in wet darkness with pieces of light
burning at my breast, and I awaken, and my soul
is nourished, oh sweet God is in the rain, my dear.

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Carry Me

The image of you clad in radiant light, like some
heart of a star, bleeding white gold glory, oh sweet
Yeshua, pulsing like solar flares, you lay hands on
me and I dream of the Tzohar, the Lapis Exillis, your
Cup, the Holy Grail that poor Parzival quested after,
you know the angels robbed Parzival of his virtue and
the Fisher King wounded him at his groin, just like
Jacob wrestling Samael, or was it Michael? Perhaps Jacob
is immortal, sweet guardian of your blood, and from his
groin descended the sleeping generations of all nations!
Oh the glory of God, oh the glory of Heaven, oh the
righteousness yet meekness of the lamb, soft is your
wool, sweet Jesus, and smelling like dragon’s blood
does your mane, Lion of Judah! You are an omnivore,
as is your birthright, to drink down blood of the
covenant, cannibalizing yourself, and I have tasted
the Passion in my labor pangs of birthing new worlds
in the wastelands of the asylum, where many go into
the Tomb, only to rise in white gowns anew, and I am
healed by your blood, blood, red and white blood and
water, oh sweet Christ, how you rage at the unjust,
how you cradle me and rock me to sleep, singing the
lullaby B’shem Hashem, you make my throat burn with
a choked on Sacred Heart, the gristle sticks in my
esophagus, and I eat my gods, but you are the One God,
and there are layers like a carapace to divinity, and
you are nothing but Nature Incarnate, sweet yet fierce,
for Nature is Sophia, your Mother Goddess, Asherah,
the Lady Holy Ghost! Wisdom speaks and Eloa ascends,
Norea descends, Eve is Ninti, Lady of Ribs,and you are
Enki in the Garden of Eden, for what separates Enki
from Christ? Not much, I can tell you, Lord of Waters!
Soft and gentle, strong and firm, your skin and flesh
an apple for the plucking, your hair brown boughs to
nest in, your lungs fit for breathing fire at End Times.
Your Mysteries are Holy Passion Plays, mummer’s delight,
and I am Columbine masked as I climb the Sephiroth, the
paranormal romance writers and urban fantasiests write
about angels and demons but always forget the Lord, who
through all things are made, and to have a lurid Devil
one must also admit the existence of Unconditional Love,
for hate is but the absence of God, but the Devil does
not hate, simply mourns, and he spits at your feet as
you, with the best of Serpents, crush Samael’s head!
Break the skull of Satan open and shove in redemption,
for there are two Mourning Stars in this story, and a
glimpse of Heaven is worth seven Hells, but I am welcome
above and below, and I know my path lies with you in sweet
eventuality, when I am old and gray, and you take me to
ascend to Narnia in your Aslan arms, sweet Savior, ready me
for the long journey home…


I am the Thunder, Perfect Mind descending on Babylon,
lady of lions and serpents, Qadesh of sacred whoredom,
ready to travel infinity with my yoni a blooming lotus –
climb the stars of stairs to my palace, Gilgamesh! Oh
you proud Odysseus, marvel at my Divine Femininity! For
I am the Old and New Eve, and from my apple seven devils
were worms eating the white flesh, cast out of mealy,
crumbling Paradise. I baked a heart in white wine today
it was the heart of my maker, my lover, my father, and
his corpse smoked a cigarette on the porch as I added
a touch of paprika to that most salient organ. It burnt
a bit on its charred rot, the cardiac muscles ballooned
with butter, and every woman must set out to eat her gods.
We are what we eat at the end of the day, and I will
consume the Pleroma, I will eat archangel’s wings deep-
fried, I will pluck out Odin’s last eye for an appetizer.
I am sick to seven hells of my body being a temple, let’s
make it a wasteland, this High Priestess has fallen into
the corruption of zuhama! Babalon, Ave Babalon! My womb
is a black goat high on a clifftop, about to be sacrificed
and in the moment before the Rabbi slits my neck so I go
running bleeding down the scree path, scarlet red, I realize
there is no god but my own mind, for I am queen of myself
so this fallacy of worship begone, best to devour Heaven,
drink down Hell, and cannibalize those who think they made