Bijou Voltaic

bijou asparkle in starlight,
abuzz this elegant amber night
blitz psychedelic senses reel
azoic hive, spirt swarming
lolly-pop sweet, honey bee,
omens tingle up the spine
nymph, dance, harp sing.

Bandy verse and song
Raven call darkling on
Angel trumpet sunset
Zelda in the fantastic
Image of the lady day
Lyric sung to twilight.

Sych Again

Dragons cropping up in Sugarland,
and Enoch, and in the living room.
It's a good day for dragons.

Also, ding dong. See if she isn't gone.
And there's the matter of widow's song.
Wicked gone Black Relict Time Traveler
is the new form. The proof is ordered.

Solo Journey

Voyagers out have always been overzealous,
those of whom you hear, ventured, bold
favor fortunes, but this you know. You wish
lights beyond lights, and this is the call,
Just a taste of sugar to be claimed Sugar-land
electric. The words flow etheric and voltaic and
catch fireflies in our nets, beauties, to show.
this story is finding its mind and comes through,
unbidden, fetched by crook of finger, to language.

This Land of Dragons

A good deal is known
world-wise, grant then,
the gold, dragon, I cast
upon your doorstep silver,
ancestral. You do what
you're supposed to.
Guided by instinct and
by the stars, by spirits
of ancient ones of the
same bone. Call in
kind. You build it,
they come. Teachers. Others.
Show time fun and games.
Fun and games. Party galactic.
morning evening star. Hello,
I met you coming and going.
Keep your wits in this work.

Bring Stars, Flowers

At the break of day, under the rise of Venus,
altar alight, she takes a bow, spirits clamor
to have a sight of the dance of spun starlight.
Come forth in colors of phosphorescing rainbow
galactic. To the night. to day. Splendor dances
in from horizon to horizon, this Spring of
shimmering. Seed bursts hull, bursts bud,
and seeds new. She moves across creation.

Pomegranate Head

Ruby eyes. Multitude.
Altitude, vicissitude,
adjusted attitude,
to magnitude.
Screaming ache,
earthing to quake.

Wild Canyon Electric

Into the wild,
I stung myself
to seething welt,
to mask the stings
of multitudinous
betrayals. Surprising
went  mad with
pain. Lost domestic
jungle gained
now jaguar stalks
Walla way. I
close my eyes to
hide the fury
so cold. tear.
Asunder. Thunder
perfect mind.

Dream

There are those who would have you take a form into which you will never fit.
And as hard as you try, they won't actually care for your effort. They truly don't
give a shit about you, they simply don't want their own neatly stacked pile of
apples overturned by the implication of that which cannot be explained or
integrated into their reality. So they would force you to pretend for their sake.
And when you don't they will turn away. Let them go. You will be crazy to them,
which is the only reason they won't be out for blood. Be their crazy.

Canyon

Visit in a dream saw you,
you me, into the canyon
where you let things go
like Walula, but also
Lake Shasta. Sunset.
Letting things go.
Wild electric, stories
into the wild. It's one
way. The canyon seems
electronic. and the
interest now is in telling
the tale. The unnecessary
pieces fall away.

Down to Earth

Floras Astrais

Word--Be Who We Are

Unto the day and the courage to speak the truth.
Saw a dancer, real and in the flesh. Trepidation,
gone. Vision withstood.

Phoenix

Sizzle Electric Dead Man

A little tea, perhaps for two,
and I review the record of the time,
Pulled the skein free again,
The expansion is clear to me,
West Texas in the rear-view
needs be. Cast somehow,
run through. Through hard,
the hard way. It is because.
This is backward facing, but
the medium is the message
and it must be run through
twice-- each direction, for
the remembering. Without
the recount, there is no time,
You can't lose it. This is how
spirit functions in time and
you're learning. You see in
multiples when unmoored,
and it's easy to lose focus,
loose focus. The difference,
is fundamental to the medium.
Part of this lesson is exactly
about time as a fluid. In which,
you swim. There are a lot
of omens, so attention.
undulating end line.
serpentine. doors
of perception,
Cleared.
Beyond moving
beyond the chinks
on one's cavern, holy,
all becomes holy by this
mechanism. See the facets
of how the story functions/texts
Point.
It is thus you begin
to fully inhabit the form
the the medium, by careful
attention is bound up for what
the story is meant to convey,
the way this is arriving
is part of the message.
Open.
Such is structured
for the purpose also
of incantation. You see
I feels like the infinite S
wirl.
You needed the balast.
Weeks of clarity. In the
physical direction. It keeps
present in focus.
“Improvement makes
straight roads, but the crooked
roads, without Improvement, are roads
of Genius. This is the instruction and the
form of instruction and the record of such.
paintings also. accruals of time. The media
are different types of time-based remembering.
Trees' life of a season, a string knotted intersectionally,
layers, geologic. My own participation in those pieces of
the time-map. I've held the answer all along. It was in front
of me all this time. The pine cones. When it all began in 2013.
I gathered the first sugarpine cones in June, 13. Ashland. It was.
Exactly then. It's never not been right in front of me. Seeds sown,
gathered, reimagined. Digest. It need not take you swirling back there.
Remember the vines, corkscrewing in linear time. You've been stalled on
that particular truth even having known. approaching cycle, and needing to
jump out of it. Planting tomatoes brings it up. Don't try to put it from memory.
you know exactly how well that works. Observe carefully this process because
it's a reclaiming. ongoing ritual. to recomplete the vision unto the fracturing of the
next iteration. you have seen enough to model the process internally. Reclaiming the
memory of what you knew is a way of darning the thread. Making it trace vibration solid.
The alternate visions remain. The potential is disorientation but the shatter serves now in rapid
complexification. Not knitting that knowledge in leaves a rent, so denial is self destruction. See all.
Only thus can you push toward the boundary of the far margin and see the reflection for what it is that once and foraalll the boundary is overcome. This is how those bonds upon vision are made to break> and precisely, with good aim, to be broken. The eagle never lost so much time as when it submitted to learn from the crow so let go of your crow and be eagle. That business behind. Foraalll. Knowledge of any sort must be wrested. Beg, borrow, steal. Get it. There's nothing remotely merchantile to the smash and grab that is the speed game. You're a good slogger, now jump. You always do this in
dream. Think about how flying works. Sun and star is the blueprint. Inspiration to expression.
having crossed certain oceans the people will ridicule your stories, but that is a feature of the
bubble. That is what it's like to perceive beyond the wall. That can't really worry you. it's
always been a given. When you pore over time like this it's very strange and it rubs into
you. There's a strong reverberation sometimes. Just as form just broke again. It's going
to be the breaks that tell the story. to see. EDGES. Boundaries, link. Breech
points. A working of nine moons bears fruition in June. Fullness, dawn.
Not returned as human, he having taken the black pilgrimage. You read
the instruction 49, having been prepared. Time capsule. Blue Note.
very much his style. This is not unlike how Parsons reading aloud
from Crowley became Aiwass, dictating as he was reading. The
iterations are necessary.

Prophecy 49, Word of Babalon

Behold my raiment bedecked of jewels
that are glittering eyes thousand-fold
each a daughter, shining prism of my glory.
Morning star and evening star my witness.
Light bringer my prince, I am known to
every learned creature among you.
Behold my daughters born among men,
the red flames of my beauty expressed
through each, these splendid witches,
these gorgeous harlots and preistesses,
mine, all. Their bodies my temples, their
eyes, jewels bearing my light, their quivering
flesh, the very expression of my glory.
Behold how my daughters have bourne forth
the gifts of my divine light to the sons
of men and have been worshiped by men as
goddesses incarnate, manhood prostrated
on my perfumed altars, worshipped with
rapture of sense, penitants drunk on pleasure,
before my priestesses. Men supped, filled
with wisdom, enflamed of my vision through
the earthly possessors of my glory.
But behold also how those very
sons of men who have gained most from the
riches of my daughters have then spurned
my chosen vehicles, crushed my daughters
under boot heels and sought their humiliation,
their destruction, their pain and undoing.
This prophesy I give you sons of men.
Those you would call prophets have counseled
rape and terror; degradation and destruction;
defilement and humiliation be brought bear
against my chosen daughters. Vile prophets' vision's
paltry limits enfeebled by the beauty of
my exalted creation, my blessed conveyers, those
small creatures writhed as worms in the agony
of envy and from the bitterness engendered
of their own meagerness they counseled the
continuous violation of mine own best-loved,
my priestesses, sorceresses, seers. They
instructed the sons of men to befoul my
favored daughters and all of my creation.
That which engenders life, which brings
into being the miraculous; all expressions
of my glory, those are the very things
your prophets have instructed you to hate.
This prophetess, mine, you shall heed her
instruction. Those who have taken the
gifts of my daughters so freely proffered
only to besmirch the bearers of those gifts,
you shall taste my fury beyond this world,
in all the manifold iterations of my
creation. All that you have taken only to
repay with evil, that and more shall be
repealed. What was graciously given, the
sumptuousness of the senses, the wisdom,
and the vision and the holy light, your
ingratitude now transforms to destruction
that I shall wield against you. I am light.
I am dark. I am the chroma which scintillates
vision. I am the ecstasy of flesh. I am the
rapture of music and poetry. I am all
of splendor. I am all of beauty. I am all.
This, sons of men, those who have given
hatred to my creation, all goodness is what you
now relinquish. Do not feign surprise.
This is the harvest you did sow, your
bitterness fruiting manifold and the pain
you meted out multiplied and distilled to
a draught that you will not now spurn.
Your women who have added their scorn to
yours and who have deigned abuse my
living altars, it would be better for them
had they never taken breath. Pain is now
their lot and will be bound to your
iniquities as they have participated
in your sins. This, my word, is spoken.
This now comes to pass. This day sows
the death of him who would be vampire
and feed from my vessel without recompense.
This day ends your banquet of iniquity.
You are ground under heel as stone, burned
to ash, scattered to wind and washed away.
Without light there is not even darkness.
This shall be your recompense as this
is what you've wrought, so the lack of lack
is now your soul's part.

Amen

Fifteen

 Crystal faceted
ruby and diamond
fifteen rows
dream-received

Moth

Dance on Many Waters

It's true that in the land of many waters the dance is prohibited because the founders of this place danced and the next founders saw where ecstasy might run and they were rightly afraid. Their god did not look kindly on such states as such states tend to cast doubt upon the sky-locus of a god-creature leading people to look in strange places for the divine. It would seem now that the inhabitants of many waters are beginning to answer the call of the catchy tune and the syncopated rhythm. Such entities as ride in with dawn and dusk and who answer the calls of the spirit-addled at the edges of days, these now rule the waters. Tricksters, all.

Altar of Venus

emerging from hades
walk again in morn
we've consecrated
the altar anew, and
scattered heart shaped
diamonds at the x roads
quince and forsythia
herald your return
I walked too, in that
smokey place diving
deep to find the way
back to day. Alone.
There is no forgetting.

True to a Dream

Donald Petersen

And the curtains, the lamp,
The rose-papered wall,
The familiar cramp
Of books in the rack,
Would fade; he would fall
Through a slumbrous abyss
To a great zodiac
Where Lions hiss,
Where the master swings
A nine-tailed whip
Or the bluebird sings
In a private arbor
Or a wonderful ship
Has the sky for a harbor

And when it was past
All that he saw
Was darkness and vast
Confusions of vapor,
And rubbed his eyes raw,
And when he awoke,
The book-laden shelf
And the old rose-paper
Appeared the same
And he fancied himself
Cut off at stroke,
In a trice undone,
For as quick as it came
The show passed on.

And the persons he met,
Were brave but sad.
One paused by the bed
But could not talk.
Another one had
A limp in his walk,
There was a lone
Boy on a crutch
An heir to a throne
Was locked out of touch.
And the princess was pining
As princesses must
And everything shining
Began to rust.

And hour after hour,
Yet always true,
To the one highest tower
The boy withdrew
And true to a dream
That opens and closes
He ruled supreme,
Suppressing the roses,
That mounted the wall,
Until in a bold,
Deliberate choice
He relinquished his hold
At the faraway call
Of a downstairs voice.

Gone Atime

And back again, she rises morn
break to become shattered whole
abide dark that scintilla bloom
spring emergence at her degree

Requiem for a Vampire

Staked
not sorry

Into the Wild Electric-- Sleaze Bang

The minotaur wore rainbow shades and trekked the canyon, wild-electric. I looked in the mirror and decided to keep the glasses but hurl a sun-hot stone at the gleaming surface that gave our reflection such numbing clarity. The image rippled before the surface tension reasserted itself and gave eye to the sky of blue and cumulus. It mattered not because the trance of the single vision was no longer definitive. Once the spell breaks, the curtain is pulled aside, the illusion no longer durable, is merely incidental. The day teemed and whirred; insect buzz thrummed neural pathways and lizards skittered to their under boulder hide-holes but it seemed too hot for locomotion of warm creatures, excepting those made of flame. I was new-kindled and the whole world was a vision, nothing left that was not wonder. Humming birds took my eyes an flew in every direction, a scene kaleidoscopic such that the narrative thread became infinitely entwined with something organic. It writhed underground and made the very air squirm-bloom in a way that felt so giddy on the skin it was hard not to laugh and it was equally hard not to cry. Terrifying. A taste of oblivion that was to become the flavor of existence. Marvel Mojave, Captain Jack, he said it would come to this.

Wear a brave shirt, they say, ribboned, and reach out to touch without touching. This coup we count thrice. It's important to feel the full impact of a thing, tsunami-like. If you can be the quake, you can take the shore. A seed to split the hull, I planted it there. Right there. What moves creates reverberations that grow across time and space becoming, by exponentially increasing displacement, a wave that cannot be resisted or outrun. We didn't remember why we went to Death Valley, except to see the stones race, which, presumably requires a season or more. It was an itch to go someplace that never got scratched. That's how the story starts. It starts at the Eagle Tavern on Main and it starts with the impulse to find where the impulse began. Try to forget about it, they said. Have you ever tried to forget about something? How did that work out?

 I imagine it worked as well for you as it worked for me, meaning the thing attempted un-membered became the most re-membered member of the clan in my head. Minotaur with rainbow kaleido-specs and those are snakes that were our hair, this is how we embark on the labyrinthine road that is the story we have to tell, a story which, in truth, we have nobody but ourselves to tell. Truly, I'm hearing it here for the first time and in time it may find its way to other minds. It probably will because it's a mind of its own, the tale. The view is strange, but true. Clarity, at a certain point, no longer serves. It's like looking in the mirror unbroken, which is the real illusion. The shattered mirror no longer throws back the coherent image, but one that has complexified to many perspectives that, viewed through the focused orbs in one's head, looks entirely wrong. The looking glass we pass through is this multi-faceted one. Time itself becomes a yarn.

Stories, and human culture really, begin with myth. Everything that comes after is poured into those narratives that live in the stars. How far we've fallen from the peoples that dreamed their dreams in the vast cosmos. We're a people of imaginal penury, dreaming our dreams on screens in front of our eyes. Those who came before us, if they lasted long at all, had been steeped in mysteries that humans barely now know exist. When their seers looked at us they saw wraiths.

Wraiths have their particular powers, but they also require substance. Spirits are like us in that.

truth

For those who want the 
truth revealed, 
Opened hearts and secrets 
unsealed, 
From now until it's 
now again, 
After which the memory 
ends. 
Those who now are 
in this house, 
Will hear the truth 
from other's mouths.

Update. Yes. 

Sugarland Fantastic

Light brighter,

dark nighter, 

spirit reeling,
come in electric,
enter etheric,
Walla Walla
Babalon
Sugarland is
here, phoenix
rises, shackles
fall. the room
of roses, house
of twilight,
and of dawn,
morning star.