One of the first woo tools I made was Snake’s Rod. I didn’t know what I was making then, and just went by instinct and personal sense of style. (Spoiler: It is the macaroni art of wand decoration.) It was the rod co-opted by something greater when the entity J was cut away from me and banished. But after that path-changing night, I rarely did anything physical with it. Continue reading Nothing Lasts
Bloodied hands made soft through violence.
How is it the very thing that would destroy me
upholds me when I have lost the ability to stand?
Holy destruction that cannot be assuaged.
Your shelter has saved me from myself
and from the blows of those unlawful works.
How is it you are not my enemy?
I do not understand the love that drives you
to stand over me as guardian, even from your own.
Divine paradox, I am grateful for your company.
And while the light you cast throws shadows in disarray,
your presence is a reminder there is recovery, even for me.
Though you be almost ageless
you are ever still the tender slut
that first emerged without blemish
from churning restless Okeanos.
They say you were quick to be clothed
though no cloth could ever hide
that fragrant skin that shames roses
or the shape of that perfect thigh.
It would take more than poetry
to describe the enveloping folds
of your moistened luring lips
that speak with no sound uttered.
Lean over me and focus my gaze
with twin points of vanity reminding
that not all apples grow on trees
and not all fruits are attainable.
Though your cunt be smith-owned
(on paper and in myths as if they count)
let me not forget that it is the only power
that can sheath war without destruction.
No one recognized me as I entered the tattoo parlor. Weaver may have one helluva reputation, but Keri is just another human as far as this corner of the realms was concerned. So no one gave me a second look as I signed a pseudonym on the check-in register and took my seat between the human pirate reeking of last night’s bad decisions and the renegade alfar waiting to defile his skin with even more blasphemous marks.
Continue reading Dream Journal: 2015-02-23.01
I placed the plastic baggie on the shelf in my lair, next to Horatio’s skull. That the spirit cards came with me from the dream into the lair confirmed that this was not an isolated incident in Otherworld. The spirit’s hate felt like dry heat emanating from the plastic, but it was not anything to think about.
I turned my back to begin unpacking the rest of my coat pockets. I heard Horatio whisper to the spirit to constrain its temper if it wanted any peace from me. The spirit only hated hotter. Continue reading Dream Journal: 2015-02-21.01
I can’t get a break even in a dream. A disaster required that the neighborhood be evacuated. The local authorities had their hands full, so a call was made for volunteers of any and all persuasions to assist. I answered the call as a firemonger. The disaster was halted, but the neighborhood was still dangerous so I had to spend the night at a shelter.
Continue reading Dream Journal: 2015-02-20.02
“So you wear a hat, now. It’s pretty. Frames your face well.”
It took me a while to recognize who was speaking. Watching him pour the guilt-dark fluid into the chipped glasses didn’t help. Smelling the arrogantly sharp blackstrap rum, did.
“Yes, Sir. I finally found one to my liking.” Continue reading Dream Journal: 2015-02-20.01
I fell through the floor into a place in between. My first reaction was laughter, because I already knew I was dreaming, and that where I fell from was supposed to be a cave hewn out of solid rock. So how could I fall through rock? Dream logic, I guess. Continue reading Accepting Rejection
I see that smirk!
That boyish grin brightly boasting
behind that too damn old grizzled scheming beard.
I’m totally blaming you, I hope you know.
And by blaming,
I mean thanking,
because I know it’s not by accident
you let your hand be seen.
Not all tricks are played in spite.
Sometimes fortune does favor
fools and babes
Wheels in motion tend to stay in motion
and I have seized this one the best that I could
under the circumstances
now rushing in crackling fervor
down a mountain of consequences
pondering if an eruption is better suited instead.
The same hand that hints with nudges
could just the same plant me deep into irresistible fate.
I’m totally all in, I hope you know.
And by all in,
I mean making an “in”,
because I know coincidences missed
bear no fruit in the end.
Not all tricks are magic and arcane.
Sometimes fortune is naught but
the end of a round
Wheels at rest tend to stay at rest
and I have taken your gift the best that I could
to seek the hub
now crackling in electric fervor
across a field of quaking graves
waiting for an eruption to strike me dead.
Rip the veil over your face.
Face the fire and spit up blood.
Give the empty offering to the unclean altar.
Crack the stones with your teeth.
In bright light of day, offend sensibilities.
Take the outrage as your overdue fee.
Intone the forbidden syllables, shit your pride.
Bless all your holies with pee.
Blaspheme against your chosen gods.
Defy the unfair rules of The Game.
Turn the tables before you steal the dice.
Burn all the currency.
Challenge their morals and those they serve.
Drag the naive priests down the gutter of your street.
Pull down the lies you wallpaper your life.
Close your eyes and see.