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

Garden.

 

Right?

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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.

Southern Saints

And we are a rambling caravan of apostles, circus of
disciples that dance across Americana from truck stop
to ghost town, casting out demons, saving lost saints.

The hungry masses thirst for that old time faith, but
find bellyfuls of vinegar and mouths of soap. So we
preach, lift serpents and suffer no bitter poison, faith
heal by laying hands on the suffering, all for an apple’s
bite.

Jesus, Mary Magdalene, Peter, John. Our names are unimportant.
We wear Bonnie and Clyde ripped jeans and dusty white, motorcycles
our steeds not unlike donkeys as engines wheeze down the interstate.

Dust bowls dance from Kansas to Oklahoma, backstop recipes on the best
way to burn up sins, little mom and pop convenience stores serving BBQ
that have no idea they are feeding God. Christ blesses the country folk.

Sing, sing hosannas in the summer storm. Get down on your knees and pray.

Pray for the day Michael’s boat of deliverance comes, row ashore, Alleluia!

Splinterglass Ribs

Cinderella’s slippers made of rain, Snow White’s glass coffin.

Splinterglass cage of lungs, snow in my marrow, Christ rises.

I am pools of puddled ice, fractals in a snowy wood of birch.

Peace of winter yawns across the gates of harvest, Christ walks.

Oceans are inside my sternum, chill Atlantic rime, sweet hoar.

In the between steam breaths, I swim to the feast, Christ eats.

Rush of tides in my chest, frozen heart, snowflake cells, frost.

The Sacrament is land laid barren yet fructified, Christ rises.

Thus does fall turn to Hades, and thus do all good stories end.

There is nothing new in this story, my darling, Christ triumphant.

 

Better to forget, better to rest.

 

Best to slumber, Apostle and

forget His

Cross.

How the Light Comes In

A calamity of lion and wolf, lodged in between bed posts

and a rain of sunlight and shadow between my rib bones.

The angel presses me to the demon, and I am the bridge

between Hell and Heaven, and Michael and Samael are

twin to ruin, to redemption, clutched close to my breast,

serpent and falcon with fang and talon pressed in my meat.

I cry out for my husbands in a rainstorm, they  come with

wings of ivory and soot, they rain down upon me with mercy,

and in the embrace of the Devil, in the crack of Eve’s cage,

in between the span of an archangel’s wing and the Left

and Right Hand of God lifting me up to glory, I know nirvana,

that sweet nothing between the pages of an old Bible, and

you cannot wash yourself of darkness or light, the good and

evil inclination are just shades of gray, I love Satan as much

as I love the Savior, twin Morning Stars, running rivers to

valleys of Paradise, in the end, it begins again in summertime.

When the flowers grow green and wild, and polarities merge,

and we are but dancers on infinity, turning up roses with toes,

spanning the ages with plies and tourniquets, catch your dove,

tame your angels, staunch the blood and cut off he broken limbs

from your Tree, Christ died once on a branch like this, Satan

wept under his vine at the loss of Eve, came to her by the riverside

hellbent and enmity snake and broken, and in midnight, the

Magdalene gives solace to them both, best to be cracked, for that

is how the light comes in.

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.

Love a Tiny Thing

And the sweet smell of lilies and home drowns my senses, as in your manifold arms I find mercy, I the Lamb, you the Lion, and worn eyes that bespeak the gold of the Tabernacle and sandy skin like Jerusalem at dawn immolate me, all tan mountains and earth like providence, your tangling hair the brown of thorns.  Roses bloom in the breaths between us, and Sharon and valleys bleed from our hearts, and for every regret birthed at the midnight hour, I’m crying out penitent tears and studying skulls in the desert wastes as you ascend into the firmament.  The truth is you left me behind and walked up to the mount of the cosmos and then shed manna down on me in my travails, my hair grown long and red, and as I ripened with philosophies and gnosis and the lunar keys to the cardiac kingdom, you descended from the Throne when my time as desert philosopher was done and lifted me up to your lap, and I drank your wine, and you ate my bread, and we are always studying each other, my dearest Savior, my greatest cross to bear, my fig tree and mustard seed.  Notice the small spaces between raindrops, in there find us dancing, in between grass blades, love is the tiniest thing.