Tag Archives: magic

Amen To Wild Days

The recording she sent me, of our old stories of private gods and our valorous children,
has the cold wind of roaring February blowing her straight brown hair and her soft and
gossamer voice.
She sits in the field, our once mighty and eternal kingdom that has faded now, just a field,
as we have grown up, and the tales just slip away forever, you cannot hold them close,
cannot remain that child, even if you never grow up.
My tattering and navy blue hoodie, the one I gave her when I left for the war, from
Weeki Wachee springs, our last childhood adventure, all of sixteen, all out of grace,
the summer when mermaids were taking us down.
She wears it, and her t-shirt of the painting of Diane the Huntress, and blue jeans and
black boots, steel toed for her job, as she sits with our leather bound book of tales,
our own private holy writ of gods now lost.
Her soft, dark eyes cast down, light brown hair blowing over her face, the wind the edge
of tears in her voice as it swirls it up and whips the gossamer like spider webs in the gale,
ripping apart to send to the ancient kingdoms.
I watch this, laying down in my bunk, on my aging smartphone, still good enough for us,
and the working she is sending, of the brave monarchs we once were, the gods who adored us,
and the children we made out of dreams and voices.
I am away at the war, and her, with her mental illness, stayed behind, and she sends her magic,
her voice, our dreams, to me to protect me and anoint me and keep me safe, from friend and enemy,
and The Red Dragons that eats up children’s hearts.
Reaching the end, she closes the book, closes her eyes, says sacred words I cannot hear or pronounce,
and then looks into her little camera as if to look me in the eye, and smiles, beautiful and sad,
then says there will be another child coming from as last night together, this one in the usual way.
She turns off the camera, I turn off the video, and sit in the dark, the stars in the barracks window,
the stars all secret gods and valorous children that has been lost but still light the night and the dark,
and ours watch over us even know, in the war that will be The Red Dragon’s finally victory.
Amen to mad days, and the ones left behind. Amen to brave tales, and our loss that makes us sweet.
Amen to her, and what might yet be.

Mustangs

There are still stacks of opened boxes, the windows still uncovered,

but I feel somewhat safe, being back from the road, and behind a

row of thick trees.

Just a couch and my laptop, and the plastic, toy horses my kid sister

played with when she was little, before the demons started an endless

war in her head.

I sit Indian style in front of them on the floor, hardwood against my bare

ankles, playing with them, trying to make stories and find the right childlike

spell that will make her whole again.

My kid sister, not a kid, now a woman, sleeps upstairs, still plagued by bad

dreams even then. The demons don’t let her be. I can’t call down the angels,

and I doubt God saying doesn’t forsake us.

I put on puppet shows for her, about King Arthur and Guinevere fighting Satan,

and make up ballads of Archangel Michael fighting Satan, casting him out forever,

giving her hope her ware can be won.

At night she’ll sometimes sit outside on the back patio, even as winter comes,

in her nightshirt and jammie bottoms, listening to melancholy hymns on her

headphones. Even with God, this world is bittersweet.

I remember, when she was little, I was her favorite brother, and she followed me

like an angelic familiar, like the hope of a new morning even after a long dark night,

and I remember playing with the horses she so loved.

And she could make me see, in my older and lazy third eye, that we were riders on

the steppes and on the plains and the ancient mountains, priests and warriors in the

world so resigned to evil.

And I try to call that magic now, re-open my third eye so I can make my way to the battle,

so doesn’t have to fight alone, so she can be happy and wild yet again, be Michael chasing

Satan out forever, so she can be Gabriel, telling the world what it needs to hear.

Artifice Joy

This set, where the young lover lived,

a cozy apartment above Chinese take-out

and boutiques and a distant, false,

Greenwich Village street.

I sit here, on the bed, the set dresser’s

idea of what a young woman’s bric-a-brac

would be, as the century burns out, exhausted.

I smoke French cigarettes. I dream of her.

The young lover, the actress refined, sharp,

in fine clothes and soft, consuming white furs,

the warmth swallows you into sleep, dreams

of what you hide behind your bed.

The fur hat, Russian Grand Duchess of a

strongman’s age, 22 is made for serpent kisses,

and she is soft and timeless as alabaster statue

in ruins on the street in Alexandria.

I am not a Christian; I’d have to be human first,

and I put the sigil under the bed for when the

young lover and the handsome lead have their

love scene, to mainline the glamour, artifice joy.

I dream of her, make her face into an angel’s laughter,

or a distant, beatific restlessness as I sleep in this bed,

home being where The Devil is waiting for me, and I know,

if he offered the chance to be her, I’d take it. I’d take it.

Where does one get French cigarettes at 2 a.m., in London,

when the angel’s are all stuck hustling tricks by Picadilly Circus,

and I have to slice off the instrument of hate, to be whole,

to not spread tears. Her tears would heal me. Fucking shakes!

The Devil is waiting for me, and I know if her offered the

chance to be her, I’d take it. I’d take it.

The Last Binding

She was barefoot and in a velvet dress,

and we left our footprints in the wet sand

as we walked down the beach.

She had kissed me once, years ago, here,

but that moment of affection was long gone,

and now she had the ways of death to teach.

The sea was dark and tempestuous, like her,

like the dreams of her I had every night, going under,

to the waters that birthed her from a spell.

The silver blade was in her hand, she cut my belly,

and ran her finger through the blood, took a taste,

and said: “As a boy, as a prince, as a slave, you did well.”

Call up sirens and spirits and things wild of another world,

and you cannot make yourself their master or lord.

They will wrap you in the silver bonds of cruelty, devotion.

And there is death in loss, and knowing nothing belongs to you.

She makes a cross on my forehead with my blood, the last binding.

She turns from me, back into the ocean, spent the last of the potion.

She pulls off the dress, free and not made by the god that made me,

and is free in nakedness and without shame, and down into the

slate and colorless waves she dives, leaving the best kind of death,

the little death of greed and emotion, of a paradise that tasted of

the iron tang of blood, and the aching loss in a poets selfish heart,

that makes cathedrals and sacred groves of a wild girl’s breath.

For Her Distant Magic

Circus girl, in blue costume, with icy frills.
High above the ground, walking the tightrope.
She is serene and as unknown as an angel.
Her small feet walk without err or misstep, perfect.
 I watch her from the darkness, at her in the light.
Between heaven and earth she walks, flesh divine.
The air is without comfort, the fall without mercy.
She walks undaunted, uncaring, without fault.
 Spotlight on her, so high above, so far from me.
Her costume glitters, her face set, her beauty cold.
An angel of the air, she walks between worlds.
I, all too human, fall for her, for her distant magic.
 On the other side, once again mortal, a young woman,
she smiles at us in the crowd, and bows sweepingly.
I clap and cheer, thinking a love her, not her fleeting grace
as angel of the air, a walker between worlds, flesh divine.