Hecate’s Corner Cafe

Beside the winged edifice
beneath a half moon carapace
there stands a witch and this
familiar figure made manifest
conjured at the crossroads
dying quietly in earnest
fanned by rings and storied amulets
evocations of the catalyst of curious
concomitance she stirrs the fir perched
claws in a promontory the vista summoner
beckoning the peaceful mumbler
the waking life in a sliver of summer
the terrible price for the weaver
paid in sorrows plaid into ballgowns
and lace curtain awnings encircling
the stalk of the fruit of knowing
foggy saliva on downtown incisors
gravitation distorting the view
on the neon banks played out signage
divine which direction to choose
and the ad hoc rules of dating deities
dance in transcendental melody
sycamore seeds in furry feet
ideas spread religiously
sometimes one of them sticks
and gets carried away
on the undertow of unconsciousness
between virtue and depravity

deposited in the silent sound
playing bear to friendly trees
Plum Yew and Wandering Jew
the forest audience surrounding
axe in hand and suffering stand
the familiar man comes thundering
set about the trunks and boughs
dismembering makes everything
remembering the witch
that which there is no whicher
having seen the clouds from all sides now the hawk descends forever

Spelling Be

I feel every day is a new world, shredded by a black hole, and does it even notice? The next day I’m the black hole, a bit stronger maybe somehow. Here are the blessings of brokenness. Christ. Zen. The beginning is the end.

Whatever, words are maps and not the places we live. GPS may say turn but there’s a wall it didn’t mention, intentionally or not and you find out soon enough unless you keep your head up. Look all around and what amazes and confounds you is the mystery you wish to solve.

So boil away the fat, separate the chaff, the flesh, the seed, the beast with two backs, the dirty deed. A social contract consent form must be notarized and faxed. What are you grateful for? What do you give back to the person who gave to you, or is the world a thing which serves?

What is it we allow, and what are we allowed? Who are we and what is now?
Is this a game in a patronizing tone?
Is this the way to build a home?

So let’s suppose we exist in words. But words don’t exist. Behavior is complex physics, there’s no such thing as luck. So why not fuck and feast and lie and retreat from every heart, alone in the high castle, atop the ivory tower, upon the iron throne?

In the midst of alchemy, distilling the essences of what words mean to me, whence your work is disturbed by the sound of horns, and you send the boiling oil, the flaming arrows and trebuchet, and all the swords you own over the fence down there into the vermin hoard, peasants, burn their homes if you’re bored! Those poor hungry creatures you’ve ignored, why not share, before it’s not yours to share anymore, before it’s pried from your cold, dead hand. I always win, she said. The mage replied, maybe you have.