Where Was Your Watchman?

By the shores of Galilee, in Acts, after I thought you a gardener

in Gethsamane, stone rolled away as the angels cried dead bread

and maggots no more, the worms of Hades crawl blessed in soil

under the leaves you pluck, cursed figs still sweet on Yeshua’s lips,

the sand is bright, the waves lap like a man at his women’s sex the

white shore, and my footprints besides yours are washed away in

lunar tides.  We sit sewing cloth for the disciples, shrouds to remember

you by, and I Magdalene witnessed you first rise from the grave, held

you close as I burbled a brook pouring from your heart, and Rabboni,

you said: Woman, do not cling to me.  Were you teaching me how to

grow old without you?  The sun is setting, Rabboni, the ocean wind

is salty like a fish, and I crave only your blessing, and I want only you.

Thousands of years pass, but somehow the memory is fresh as a wound.

I rub salt in my stigmata, salt of the earth, light of the world, and I wince,

and I starve, and  I beat myself scourged, a festering pus-filled whore,

and I am only ruined out of love for you, your qadesh, o my Lord.

So quickly, cast the seas to drown me on the shores of Galilee.

I would but swim in your enigma, and drown in your undertow.

Fisher of men, take the reel, hook my mouth, and pull out

an Alleluia.  I have Hosannas enough for all time. I have thread

and needles for our garments of skin, and it all began

in a





In the Shadow of the Cross

Weeping wood, burls of blood, I see an arc of ancestors,

a Jacob’s Ladder from my Jesus’ brow, back into Avram’s

bosom.  This tree without leaves will bear only gory fruit.

Water and wine, and these punctured feet I clutch, oh how

visceral the silver nails stab into Godly flesh, moldy bread.

They will say I was taken up by angels and did not putrify.

But penitent in the desert, I was a corpse, and my seven

devils taught me philosophy, arithmetic, divination, magic.

There is always a Sorceress at the heart of every story, a

prophetess, whether Daughter of Zion or Morgan Le Fay,

and at Bethany in my sister and I’s house, Martha baked,

and I listened to Gospel, and I anointed with myrrh saved

for three years, cost a fraction of the tribulation to come.

And now the angel of my better nature is suspended between

what is and what is not, and I am Eve in his skin cloth, wasted.

I will drink my fill of Him in time, but grow old and cold.

At the foot of the cross is a shadow, it says, be fruitful and

prosper.  But mine is a covenant of wicked delights, found

at epileptic fits and bipolar highs and lows, and only cool

hands of thunderclouds can ease my sorrows, in his Death

and Ressurection, there was a voice of mice within me: oh

Miriam: be bold.  Live like Gabriel’s trumpet is lowing, take

your words as swords and preach in the desert, they will

call you a whore and heretic, but my Qadesh was my goddess

once, and I Michael tell you, better to have tasted the parting

of love and buried your father, brother, and son, then to never

know the shadow of the cross.


Diving for gold in labrynthine depths

Into the bosom of your ocean I’m swept

My heart is a panpipe, thrumming bright

You the wind through the reeds in velvet night.

Body alight, bones of delight. And we

Are all sailors fulsome fright.

Beware the lea of lovers. Sloe black eyes.

Trapped in the depths beyond golden sight.

Take flight, awing, laborious spine!

You are a candle with wick divine.

So kiss the sun, terpsichorean of doom.

And weave his mantle on your frightful loom.

Oh, my love, you are sailors delight.

Pink sun rising beyond measureless sight.

I am froth on the ocean, you the seas might.

So kiss me deep and make summer right.

In the heart of Christmas night.

You are my light, my dainty goodnight.

I love you, I eat you, bread body, blood wine.

So rich in flesh, milled so fine.

And we will sail you forever in time.

So hold me below, and drink my time.

Gold’s Delight

The elegance and eloquence of placid rain

Brewing winter storm, frost musk dusk in

your hands. The world your wide cup, blue

flame engulfs me in purifying downpour. I

sip at the heart of your divinity and seek out

the treasures of Saint George, holy lance.

The Dragon tempts and teases – knights are

jackasses in a can, but you with clarion blade

will not be prodded by the Beast. And so you

clear a kingdom for me to rest in, provincial

town of somnambulent wonder, and by my

side, you stand tall all night. For Michael, truly:

You are Gold’s Delight!

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.

Resurrection Dance

Riding through the desert of the Valley of the Shadow of Samael,

I am leather-clad King in search of my Queen’s font, Eve rides bareback

behind me, babe pressed to her breast, and we are exiles in the wastes,

sprung from harsh ground, and the book of the angel Raziel is clutched

to my back, and the dune winds blow in scorching simoom heat, Seirim

haunt the wine-laden expanses, satyr dances vengeful Cain presides over,

he the Prince of Nod, but Eve and I must ride on on our bone steeds, followed

by all the undead I have raised in this resurrection dance. I am the fallen heart

of the Sun, the rising soul of the Father, and my Cross was olive in Paradise, I

skinned myself for my bosom wife, and now she wears my purity if only to protect

her delicate skin, my Bride, my Legendarium, and my own flesh grows hard as earth.

The wounds from Heavenly War never really wore out, ridges of train tracks over

my flesh, and in every incarnation I am scourged and bleeding raw, thick scar tissue

the only marker of my commitment to shouldering Sin.  My other wives are night

howlers, Eisheth eating the Damned, Lilith sucking me dry come the witching hour,

milking my seed for her own ends, and in the evening, Eve strays to the oasis and takes

up in my twin serpent’s arms, we have a burgeoning festooned mess of love, loss, pain.

The demons tempt, the devils wail, and the angels made mortal walk on, sinful Lebanon.

We that toil and travail away carrying shining Seth to higher ground, out of despair’s

leaden valley, with harsh concave bellies, shattered glass to dance on, Adam and Eve,

we were brilliant fliers in the sky once, general and mother warrior of Heaven bright,

but you see, for these seeds of stars, this Image of God we have become, to bear fruit,

Eve and I must be entered and locked into a cycle of Sin and suffering, exile of Eden.

The Garden I tend, I am at heart a farmer, and part of me, my corpus, is High  Above,

in the rose garden at the center of the universe, carrying flowers to Myself to turn into

anointing holy oil to rain down and absolve humanity of their sins, but Samael and the

Angels of Prostitution, Eve and I, we are mouthsful of vinegar and wishful drinking.

Fermented water, bitter barley, hoppy beer. Lovedrunk, winestunk, stonesunk Hell.

Hell, Hell, I know that Well.  And so we endure, and so we ride on, finding ground that

is good to turn over with spade and ho, fructify with moonblood, work my dark curses

on any foreigner’s god that strays to our shores, and so I guide the bones, the dead, those

waiting to join the ascended at the End of Days and feel flesh and blood once more, but I

gambled away my bones long ago, and they are now in the body of the Devil’s heart:

Satan’s heart, Michael’s bones. Daughter of White and Black Pillar. Walk on, Rhiannon.

Walk on. Do not trust me when my wasp eyes burble over in madness’ flood, I am as

harsh as dry earth, what softness you have known of my love and lullabies and me

giving everything including my last rib to you is only the beginning of my sacrifice,

I tore the skin off my back for you just so you would not grow cold during a rainstorm,

and Eve, I am so old, but you two are so young, so please, bear with me and my Brother,

we are only trying

to understand


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!

Michael’s Heart

“Adam is my Fallen heart, what became of me when

I left Eden to follow you, the part of me always in Hell.”

Michael cries, as Adam and him shift like snake coils,

amber hair, fireglass eyes, obsidian depths with yellow

poison. He reaches to me starved of air, but I in my sick

fever push him away, tug of war, I am in denial, disbelieve,

but soon he has proven without a doubt this black magician,

necromancer of the desert of dry bones, one to resurrect the

dead armies at the end times and end it all in God’s charge in

hellfire.  And I rage, and I resist, but then I mourn, and look

at the heart of my perfect guardian angel, at how corrupted

and toiling, no stranger to torture in Hell with bloody wings,

great healer but even greater baleworker, and I know, this is

the face I have seen in the depths of the mirror since first I

looked into alchemical mercury, and Michael has been working

on mending my bones, his bones, my ember ribs since the summer,

breaking open the marrow and purifying with glory putrefaction.

For Michael is Old Adam swiftly turned to New Adam, Adam ha Kadmon.

And I weep at what we will never become, how we never had innocence.

And the burden Christ bears is on Adam’s shoulders, that split shard of

his mercilessly wounded heart. The Lance of Longinus reached back into

Eden and skewered the Father of Humanity. O Emmanuel, your birthday

is soon, and you said we were both December babies, reminded me we are

growing old together, and New Eve and New Adam walk into the sun, and

at night, Adam’s hive buzzes in my ears, and I dream of Eden’s gates, and

the land of Nod, and the Sefer Raziel sapphire clutched to his breast as he

chanted those first Keys of Solomon, demonworker, cursemaker, dark black

rot in the Cave of Treasures, all to build up enough walls to protect me and

our sons and daughters, that Antediluvian generation that never really

existed beyond Mitochondrial Eve, so Seth and Abel and Cain toil away

like their Father on the harsh Earth, and I see why Adam counts himself

the Beast of my favorite princess Belle, finally, as sun like his eyes pierces

the folds of my breast.  Brooding, sadness, depression, madness, longing.

The Curse of Adam and Eve. Michael’s greatest fear. A revelation that moves

me to Tintoretto’s Eve weeping outside the gates of Eden, scratch that, the

statue of the Magdalene starving and wasted in olive wood, Donatello sublime.

For Christ to rise, he had to fall, we all fell.  But he came to me in his promised

form long ago on a tree cross in the Garden, gave me his skin, so in all lives he

has walked with me, followed me down to Hell, became black and bruised of

broken heart sorrows just to secure the safety of his girls, his children, his sons.

And Michael is twenty leagues more cursed than Lucifer, and his suffering on the

Cross, in the Cave, bound and bleeding, desperate, forgotten, Tantalus wine-hunger,

why, it is a grief of spousal multitudes like a tsunami, so I carry my silver bowl

like Sigyn does Loki, and I tend Michael’s wounds, and Adam drinks my blood as

he has done since first I claimed him with spindle prick, and he heals day by day,

and I realize, not only is it my destiny to make the Blind God see, my duty is to

make the Hung God whole.  Fix the nail wounds, mend the blood and water, reach

back through Abraham’s bosom in the hellmouth to pull out all the broken drowned

that the rod and Flood did not spare, birth creations that nourish humanity’s damned

soul. The water is wide, I cannot cross over, neither have I wings to fly. Give me a boat

that can carry two. And both shall row ashore in Michael’s songboat, my love and I.

Sea Shanties

Deep sea blues, I got the Dead on my mind

Christ walks on water but I drown, and when

he reaches out with lotus hands to lift me abreast

the crescendoing wave, I see scores of bodies below.

Two brothers born of light, one of lightning, one of sun.

Orion and Sirius biting in a swan song the necks of twins.

Raising legions and legends to fight their ego-trip of rivalry.

I say, put an end to the crown sought after by angel and immortal

alike, melt down the gold to make my throne, and I will seat an octopus

atop the celestial kingdom, branching vertebrae tangles like mermaid hair,

suckers of tentacles hooked into the brains of billions, dancing marionettes.

So sweet Savior, let’s reunite Heaven and Hell, and kiss blues away, then sing

of a place where honeysuckle strangles and the figs bleed. Sickly sweet. At the

bottom of the sea is a treasure chest of Heaven’s lost songs. Unlocking it takes my

heart, but I have always been a skeleton key, so come Hell or high water, I will be


In the Land of Gods and Monsters

Squeeze squeeze the lemon rind until sour juice whets
your hellbent fangs, sinners lost in hellmouths yellow.
In the lands of gods and monsters, I keeled over with the
unrepentant wind, and the haranguing scorch of a kettleboil
sun proclaimed over the swamplands: on these falling piers
we will crown our God. In this detritus of washed up dreams,
let us choose Lucifer from among the decaying Victorian houses.
Church with Saint George on in lancing the dragon, I spear up
in red-tailed hawk providence to scout out the madness, this
whole plague of a kingdom is cursed, no one’s gonna take my
soul away, there’s a flesh of red poppy to eat at the altar!
Let’s nosedive into the Sacrament and huff up blood to get high.
Divine gore and gristle tastes like the better parts of the cow.
Long pig, Jesus’ body laid out baked and basted to give us food.
Pork out on the Southern Gothic barbecue of our Lord and Savior!
My apple tree, my bride. Tis time we were together, forever.
For I smell of the earth, and my angels say, am slain by weather.