Tag Archives: fighting demons

Saint Rose

Saint Rose, thin and sharp as wire,

the shaved head of a penitent,

dark green eyes staring the demon down.

Petite body made hard and angular,

like Saint Joan, femininity washed off

to make her iron and fire for the fight.

The fight is a moment away from the war,

the chain link octagon to beat back demons

and the gnawing hunger in her gut.

The war inside her and the corrupt world outside,

The demons sinking fangs in every tender memory,

the touch of her man, the fury of the fuck, deathlike silence.

Focus on the other woman, the fighter coming for her,

the punches and kicks and splattered blood on the mat,

the rage to win a battle that can be won.

Afterwards, right eye swollen shut, nose broken, bloody,

her skin radiating exhaustion and echoing pain in every nerve,

her head in her hands as her man kiss her buzzed head.

The fight is over, and she beat back the other fighter,

but the demons still coil up close in her dark, broken heart,

fangs sinking venom in ever softness, kiss and touch.

The little chapel in the chateau she and her man rented,

candied glass, musty and lush darkness, dim light,

impassioned Christ on the cross, eyes turned to His Father.

After the fight, after the pain has subside into dull warmth,

her wound cleaned up and tended to, she prays, whispering

beneath the anguished Christ, for strength and deliverance.

In bed with her man, the fury of the fuck, the hunger for touch

and for pleasure and to escape the confines of this too tight skin,

this prism of time that makes rainbows on the wall in spring moonlight.

Sleepy Android Face

She had a sleepy android face,

forlorn of a world more fists

that spirits, more blade than halo.

Her long dark hair was straight,

and the barest protection from

the rain and the gun.

A leather jacket that been through

the war, stiff and dry and hard,

kept her metal and lightning heart

pounding in her thin but strong chest.

The jeans and boots would keep her name

secret from the demons crawling in her skin.

The rain was the empty words of God,

promise cleanliness, but just making you cold.

The demons came in through the eye, even,

especially, for the pious. All youth and tender innocence

to be sucked dry and picked clean, the demons

arming the men goodly for the job.

Her sleepy android face was still, and sad,

and tears of saltwater or maybe glycerin came,

and a warm place was hollowed out in Athena’s shoulder,

that brass statue up in The Fort, were ruin looks on the river.

That warm place, big enough for one, would shelter her.

For demons are in flesh, and the making of flesh for newborns.

Don’t touch, and The Demons can’t get you.

Lake June

Cara shivered in the dark lake, the very end of summer,
maybe already to cold to be out in the water, and with
the sun gone under, just a low, raw red on the horizon.
She tread water in the cold lake, not wanting to go back,
back to the lake house haunted by better, sweeter times,
to the troubled thoughts, troubled sleep, she always faced.
But finally, she swam back, leaving by even the fleeting peace,
of being alone, and not having to face anyone, and their endless
questions, endless assumptions, assuming they knew it all.
She emerged from the water, started to dry with her beach towel,
and it was now pitch black, the lake house lit with hazy gold light,
a beacon from another time, a time she could barely recall now.
Last night of their holiday home for the season, back to Walchula,
where all her friends had already left for college and careers, marriage
and all that adult stuff she still couldn’t put together, here at 23.
Cara went inside and her mother smiled at her, told her to get showered
and dressed so they could go to her Uncle’s for the end of summer family
get together. Cara smiled, did as she was told, dreading all of it.
Now dressed in white blouse with a bow, and knee length black skirt,
She waited on the front steps to go, wishing the she could defeat the
madness, the disorder and chaos in her mind, all the shit holding her back.
Always tired from fighting through the jungle of her thoughts, feeling as if
she was macheting her way through it eternally and never getting to the
other side, to the clearing, or the grasslands, were all was open under the sun.
The night was cool, the air still, as she waited for her mom and dad to come,
and for them to go to her Uncle’s, and to try and make it through, to have
a good time, and not feel all those eyes upon her, all those judging “Good People”.
For just a moment in the night, she could rest.

Saints Walk In The Dark

She was thin and strong and made no concessions to beauty.

She had the buzzed head of a saint. The distant, sad eyes.

An old, olive green army jacket that was too big for her,

swallowed her, and khaki fatigues, and faithful, worn boots.

She had a canvas knapsack over her shoulder, filled with a bible

and a silver cross made from Judas’ pieces of silver, and holy water,

and the journal she kept of the demons fought, sent back to hell,

all the children set free from the dark, all the pain and horrors.

It was five am on a Monday Morning in the old city, cold and rainy,

and the sun not back yet from the underworld, and I saw her turn her

head and look at me, curious and a shiver of hopefulness, there in the

Greyhound Station. What did she see? Was there still a flicker of light in me?

The next bus would be here in an hour, and she’d be gone to the next mission,

the next town, the next demon to fight that could not be slain until the end

of the old heaven and the old earth. I saw she wanted me to follow, to be a soldier,

to a rider of light into the dark places, to follow and be what I should always have been.

Would I follow her?

St Joan of Arc Chapel

A long drive, rainy and cold October afternoon.
Again what I thought I knew I didn’t know at all.
Michael and Lucifer want to claim victory today.
ST JOAN OF ARC CHAPEL. I see the sign there.
I pull in, needing solace, and the presence of light.
The door is open. The sanctuary empty. I am alone.
The cold grey day soothing. Patter of rain on stained glass.
I sit and pray. I ask St. Joan that I could be better today.
I let the silence fill with the longing for the light and bravery.
St. Joan, strong and brave, and willing to go to her death.
I don’t know, like she did, what aim I’m here to serve for.
I just know, I want to be strong and brave, not fall on flesh.
I leave my few dollars in the donation box. I leave a dream.
Michael pushes Lucifer away. The fire becomes soft sunlight.
A battle in war that doesn’t end today, but that we can win.

Bitter Tea Of The Days Of Youth

A soldier’s cap, maybe a SWAT cop, but on a slim

little elf of a Canadian Liberal, in Jackson Pollock

sweat shirt and ripped black jeans, de rigueur Converse

high tops.

She is the peaceful angel, tender prophet, wings all too

visible to my tired eyes as I dream of burning this world.

I cannot let go. I never knew how to forgive. Windfall rotten

and I cannot be like her, loving, embracing, A Child of Light!

She sits next to me at the airport bar, buys a club soda,

offers to buy a beer. She repeats back to me the words

in my notebook about the woman I loved, who was A

Shard of Eden, tells me they are so beautiful.

No touches. Angel cannot embrace humans. Touch in spirit

and dreams and minds and that place where we are all innocent.

She whispers in my ear, “You can make beautiful things. You can beat

that demon.” And then she pays the tab.

In red clay soil, in a place so thirsty for tears or kisses or blood,

something stirs up, an orchid at it’s mercurial best, made blue

and green, and it’s tea is bitter and warm, like days of youth.

A Duel of Wills In The Dead of Night

There were only a couple of sickly golden lights in the distance, several miles from the house I was staying. Up here in the foothills of The Applachians, neigbhors were sparse. The coal black sky was filled with stars though, and a ghastly pale moon.
I wished for a cigarette, years after quitting, years after feeling any desire for them. My hands were jittery, my mind fillled with an agiated bedlam. A cigarette with it’s harsh pleasure and rote action would distract from that.
It was late summer, the begining of September. Summer was still hot and humid and the wetness of the air made you sweat even still, even in the night. But there was already a harshness in the warmth that signaling the coming autumn and winter. Things would die off, and the dead season would come. But no respite or sleep would come with it.
I came in from the night, closed the door behind me, sat in the too bright room with it’s garish, ’70s era wallpaper and paneling, the rundown, cigarette burned furniture, the inane blanting of the radio.
On said radio a preacher was talking about the end times and Jesus coming back and the glorious elect been given their heavenly reward. I had it on, because even though I had no faith in a greater, supernatural power, and no love for anger, it soothed me to hear another human’s voice.
I sat in a hard easy chair, watching the ceiling fan spin and spin, the light chasing thin shadows on the peeling white ceiling.
I fell asleep, knowing it was coming.
 I saw her again. In a sundress, standing in a meadow, the soft, warm sunlight flitting through her long, black hair as the wind blew around her. She was looking away from me, down at the ground, but I could see the sad look in her blue eyes I knew so well. The madness that would eventually take her, the madness that I would make my own.
Her arms were crossed over her chest, like she was hugging herself. My heart ached to reach her, to hold her again, to feel her warmth, her softness, to smell the strawberry scented shampoo in her hair and the lilac smell of her skin. I ached to kiss those lips and tell her it was all going to be alright and perfect again.
I never make it to her. It can’t be better again. She is already gone.
 It is then I awaken, feeling a gauging shock in my brain. I cry out and my muscles jerk at once and I’m out of the chair and flung by my own body onto the floor. I cry out in aguish, as the thing in my brain is rooting around trying to find where I’ve hidden her soul inside my mind, so they can take her from me forever.
I close my eyes tight, my fists clenched against the sides of my head, as I regroup to fight off the demons that have come for her, the things that drove her to take her own life and leave us all behind. The demons that destroyed her will not turn loose, even after death.
I make it onto my knees, screaming my throat raw as I focus my energy to fight back against the demons, to keep them away from her, to let them take her to damnation. The demons fight back and dig into my mind and thoughts like an Eagle digging into the flesh of it’s living prey. I am in tears and even my muscles and very skin is on fire as I fight them off, a duel of wills in the dead of night.
Finally, they are pushed back for a moment, their high shreaking squeels fading out as I lay exhausted on the floor, sobbing and bodily wiped out, my mind a hive of static and noise and fire. I weep for a long time.
 At some point, I fall asleep, and I fade in and out of conciousness and dreams, between the waking and the dreaming, between the living and the dead.
She is there, still sad eyed and distant, still in her sundress. She is laying upon her side, looking at me, her head on her folded hands. She is crying. She is sorry and hurting. I try to tell her, not that it’s okay, but that I lover, and will always love her, and that I will find away for all these things to turn loose of her, and that she’ll walk in golden fields one day.
 Again, we are in the meadow. The wind is a warm wind of early June, and everything is green and alive and all the birds and creatures are singing. We are drinking wine, sitting on a blanket. I ache to her hear voice again, that girlish, lilting laugh she had.
In this dream, or vision, or wish, I put my hands upon hers, and lean forward and kiss her cheek, which is soft and tastes of salt.

There is water flowing. A clear creek clear and silver and cold. If she could only drink that water now.

 It’s the edge of dawn. My breath is ragged and I’m out of breath and my muscles ache and my head pounds like the fist of God upon the world. My eyes and tired and red and sore. My heart is squeezed inside a vice.
I feel her light though, in that secret place for her I keep safe, keep so her light will not go out.  It soft and warm and only a pinprick in the darkness. It’s all I need to keep fighting. I hear a song in the wind of her voice.
I crawl to the flat, hard and uncomofortable couch to sleep. I pull the smoke stained throw pillow over my face. Sleep, for what rest I can find will be sorely needed. They keep coming and coming for her. I cannot find the clear and silver water for her. I cannot yet send her to golden fields, where those demons can never touch her again.
 In the depths of my mind, where I keep her safe, her star’s binary light flashes out:
“I love you. I’m sorry.”
 “Some are born into sweet delight. Some are born into endless night.”—William Blake