day of the big extraction.
lower left molar
tooth number 18.
interesting chakra, that one.
sometimes a physical removal of energy is needed
to let the nadis breathe.
I got a double hernia repaired about a year ago.
anesthesia administered by St. Michael the Divine.
a whole granthi must have broken loose
while I was underneath the knife.
energetic knots all in a tangle in the sacral
burst into a cloud of scarabs and sanskaras
like a flock of a thousand white doves released
at a Louisiana Jazz Funeral.

the first time I sank into samadhi was late February 2021.
I was sitting in the lobby at Horizon Dental
third floor of the Guild building,  Wyoming avenue, Scranton, PA.
I was sipping coffee I got from the 1st floor
from the
Heaven and Earth Cafe
when my -
eyes rolled up into my skull
when my -
heart  buckled under the beauty
when my -
brain found its new home in a vat of warm static.
I felt like the Benedictine on the cross I got
from the christian trinket shop attached to the new cafe downstairs.
holy holy holy. glory be to god

this tooth has been giving me agita for two years
ever since the medicine
and the accident
and the hospital.
ever since I broke the Causal Egg.
novicaned
root canalled
capped with a cracked temporary
and now just a fractured stub of calcium
with three roots instead of two.

It only took a couple skillful shots to the face
before I couldn’t feel a thing.
except for twenty five minutes
of drilling
and cracking
and prying
and extracting the one thing that kept me grounded
when I was sitting in the common area of the 6th floor
of the CMC, Hill Section, Scranton, PA.

©️  Jordan Gee

hanging halfway out of a cocoon
woke up in a rage
my new body was congealing
suspended in soup like a silkworm
like a bee without a brain
drinkin up all that Royal Jelly.
I had my eyes closed
I was lying so still for so long to be just shaken awake like that.
What even is this Light?
an instagram aesthetic told me to
‘shed my circumference.’
like I haven’t already woven a whole tapestry of snake skins
wide enough to cover the whole ****** sun.
So I lifted my ax and
bam
manifested myself something to chop.
maybe now I’ll put the ax down once
and see where goes the edges of my world.
maybe the Masculine isn’t what they told us it was.
maybe the Masculine isn’t some rugged five’ o'clock shadow come to steal ya girl.
maybe the Masculine isn’t some ****** frat boy who gets the most toys and wins.

maybe the Masculine
is just an old grandpa
holdin up his baby granddaughter girl,
laughing;
eyes shining in the sunlight
sitting atop a bronze hippo at the Philadelphia zoo.

©️  Jordan gee

I was born in December on the Nebraska plains, Box Butte County.
Moved out of there when I was six months old.
Life bled into a hard odyssey of trail dust and drugs and second chances.
This one time I couldn’t stop doing ******
walkin all night through the Ironbound over to court street project, Newark, NJ.
Came this close to getting swallowed up by the green monster
like Jonah and the whale.
so it came to pass that I had to join the United States Navy, to save my own life.  
Frozen cats and 12 dollar packs of newports and 7 dollar wax stamped bags
and I tried joining out of East Orange
but HQ said no - mix up with the paperwork
so I tried my luck in Atlantic City.
Jack ***.
Drunk for six months straight, almost top of my class, submarine school, Groton, CT.
My life was a lost identity; I’d be sleepin inside of a Matryoshka Doll,
i developed a taste for
Tequila and salt.
I won a coin toss and they shipped me off to Guam, top of the Marianas Trench,
just like that.
Some time after all the ***** houses and buy-me-a-drinky bars and
pokin around old japanese pill boxes and setting all my friendships on fire and
one month spent circling the waters at an unknown depth beneath the Pacific Ocean
sleeping alongside a 40 foot torpedo in the torpedo room
scrubbin CO2 from the air we breathed
and the dust off  from all the valves -
It came to pass that too much 1800 and bud lite,
boxed wine and late nights,
case of the sad sickness and a broken nervous system bought me
A nullified contract and a plane ticket to Big Sky Country,  USA
free room and board at my Aunt and Uncle’s house
in Sheridan, Wyoming, Powder River Country, shadow of the Big Horn mountains.
They’re the same age, with the same exact birthday.
We used to drive out over the horizon, shootin clay pigeons out the sky.
They gave me about as much a chance as anyone ever did.
It came to pass that after after my 2nd DUI I was invited to leave that room and board
and so I landed a roommate on the edge of town.
Second generation mexican, David Rodriguez,
born and raised in that that very same county on the Nebraska plains
wherein I came raging,
full power
Into the void.
What are the chances of that?
Alliance, NE, County seat.
I bear no living memory the town
But I saw it from an airplane once.
There was a radial pattern of railroad tracks trailing out in all directions, like giant cracks on the side
of a prairie blonde asteroid.

it feels like I’m burning by a campfire
sitting in a rib cage.
only there instead of flames
there are tongues
of electromagnetic undulations
flashing forth
and then subsiding
into eternally rotating patterns of
flickering irregularities
of frequency
and bandwidth.

it’s been steadily raining for three days
and three nights.
one hundred million drops
of all the rivers
and the creeks
and the streams
and the clam beds -
one hundred million times ten.
tiny droplets of living libraries
every tear a sphere
of liquid memory and living Light -
Kalachakra crystals
cataloging every deed
of every angel
and devil alike.
  
I live inside a giant foot print
where a giant leather shoe once stood -
footwear for some ancient
Leviathan with legs.
giant leather dance steps
trailing on behind its
giant leather earthing moccasins
dancing in his
wide giant strides.
the shoes were skinned
and tanned
and cobbled off the heavy flanks
of the earthen hyde of Taurus -
that must have been an epic bull fight.
he waved a red muleta
wide enough to cover up the sun
and red enough to hide the blood stains
from his matador’s sword
stabbing up the bulls’s sides.

the house of consciousness is a castle
perched upon a cliff
like some lonely Himalayan monastery
or a high prairie stable
full of Bodhisattvas,
dragging rakes
across rock gardens
as placidly as Hindu cows.
this high up in the stratus,
the thunder claps louder
than the Leviathan laughs
activating all the chakras in my hands.

In the courtyard renaissance gardens
we plant rows of ivory footstools
for the Deity’s Feet.
in the courtyard’s spring house
we milk the ivory spitshine
with our teeth.
the magma flames from our ghost dance
couldn’t be extinguished by the rains
but the winds of change
have been known
to suddenly erupt
like a surprise Kiowa buffalo hunt
over the slowly rolling
western nebraska plains
now it’s raining white bison
over the valley below
our fortunes rise to greet our smile
but even sometimes they fail -
and even so…

The Eye of Taurus blinks not
above the Heavens
even with all the matador’s swords
stuck and sunken in Its flanks -
and poking out Its spine
like the sharp tails
of all the scorpions
hiding in the evening sky.
and even so…
we gather ‘round the glowing embers
of eternity’s campfire
so as to let our demons speak their mind.
the howling salts of the hissing desert winds
or the spider fang nettles of the whipping derecho rains
cannot extinguish this flame.
we’ve said our prayers
we’ve made our oblations
we’ve tied scarlet quantum threads around our wrists
we keep feeding fuel to the fire:
…the south poles of car batteries
…the northern ends of bullet train magnets
… even a sonar dome
hoisted off a fast attack submarine
and 100 pounds of copper wire.

now the fire-flames are flashing forth
in plasmatic rainbows -
gypsum prisms of green
and white
and blue
colors,
never before seen in Heaven,
or on Earth
or even in the Bardo.

spanish

I’m sitting in the 8am sun by the end the driveway,
trying to get a handle on the day.
folding chair
house basket
coffee.
such is my custom
and my delight.
driveways are a luxury this part of town.
my back is to the brick
sidewalk to my right
sunshine upon my face and forehead
eyes closed.
a rundown hispanic fellow
about my age
appears
from nowhere
out of my blind,
asking for a lighter.
my eyes open and all is light.
he recognized my lighter sheath
heavy *** metal with the bottle opener at the bottom
told me that he had had the same one;
picked it up from some no name bodega
out of where he originated in
spanish harlem.
he began telling me his life story, you see.
he never heard the word
‘****’ until he moved to
Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
told me he was the black sheep
of the little family he had left,
and that he hadn’t seen them in years.
he stood before me on the sidewalk
in the morning sunlight.
I asked him for a cigarette.
he was raised tangled in
a cultural straight jacket;
one tailored to his demographic.
an urban person of color.
his Divine Masculine
red lined and impoverished.
hand me down outfit
tj max rap music video.
I told him I identified as a stray dog,
sitting by the end of the driveway
8am sun.
he told me he was just doing the best he could.
best he can
with what he got.
our hearts were bleeding there together
pooling up on the driveway
8am sunshine
sky, blueish white.
I told him where I worked,
gave him the address
told him
come get some free samples of CBD.

everyday I forget that
it isn’t my job
to
save anyone.
he’s walking away with a limp up west orange.
i close my eyes.
I hope he doesn’t need any CBD.

©️  Jordan Gee

late March, 2022

I found my heart inside a casket
hidden in a burial mound
like some ill begotten mongol khan which time forgot
fermenting on the furthest steppe
near the farthest rim
of outer darkness.
They call it a tumulus
a mound of earth and stone raised over a grave
or graves
I spent thirty some odd years
heaped on top of some thirty thousand thousand some odd incarnations
praying at the altar of the outer darkness-
and then…

I found my heart inside a casket
concealed inside of a pine wood cube - hammered shut with copper nails,
some made of scrap metal, various alloys
6 heaps of chain link
buried in the badlands
47 cents a pound
I pried open the lid with a twelve pound claw hammer
bad hands trying to catch a falling knife
copper penny nails
flying through the air
glinting off of the dakota winter sun
like copper drops of rain
or six heaps of chain link
or a thousand handfuls of cracked rice
heaved into the matrimony skies.
like a dowry full of penny nails.

20 hours deep inside a drunk tank,
Columbia County Jail, Lake City, Fl -
somewhere near the Georgia border.
“I wouldn’ be doin’ that son, could be bad for your health!”
was the kind reply I was given by a guard
was the verbal response i heard
stretched out and tanned over a deep southern drawl;
a southern dialect only three degrees above pigeon english.
I had been pounding on the doors and the walls and the windows.
“LET ME THE **** OUT OF HERE!!!”
was the tune I played upon the flute and timbrel
was the serenade I sung for the unholy guards of the graveyard shift
I was standing there
praying there
pacing there
back and forth there
suicide watch
screaming there,
shivering in a turtle suit.

That was a long time ago.
The northern Florida Sun shown
white hot like molten iron alloys
hammered flat across an anvil
northern Florida sand
bakeoven hot beneath my bare feet
walking my shirtless sunburned skin to the state store
malt liquor
microwaved baking soda
30 milligrams of percocet
Wild Irish Rose
top ramen and eggs
breakfast lunch and dinner
every single night.
we were spinning and smoking so hard
we couldn't feel all the Wild Irish Thorns
cutting up our throats.

scared my dad so bad he took the next red eye down.
following morning he's walking right through the trailer door.
I was sitting there
on the couch there
with the dog there
in the dark there
10 hours deep inside an acid trip
he booked clear to the back
took a B-line for the family bible
he had given me to keep safe.
life uses many gears and levers to gauge the measure of a man.
Leather binding and the book of Leviticus all chewed half to hell.
The dog wasn’t to be blamed.
Six weeks this side of the dope sickness blues
and i’ve never seen such disappointment on a man’s face.
The grass outside the side window was covered in the morning dew;
glassy
like gray-blue ice
gleaming and
steaming in the
hot iron
northern Florida sun.

We buried our hearts in a pine wood box
beneath the basement of a rail station freight house
converted some time ago
into a single family home
nestled in the blue ridge
south of the Poconos
in the shadow of a slate hill
Slate belt, Eastern PA.
Sometimes it's easier that way
laying motionless in the dark.  
Where only the pulse
of the blood
in my neck
would betray the fact
that I wasn’t just a wax statue.  

By: Jordan Gee

June 18 ‘22 Saturn Rx in Aquarius

what ever happened to my blood quantum?
bred out of me like a piebald gelding,
an unknown wild steed
panned and sifted on down through the generations.
i read on instagram yesterday
that the energy parasites
gumming on the neck
and the
ribs
of my
seven subtle bodies
are feeding off the fear.
instagram told me i made them with my own mouth;
filthy mean language tastes like
dial soap.
i got squeezed out
all the way to the contingency;
caught me cloning all my plan B’s.
and now I’m drowning in the
carbon copies.

god ****** egregore
comin in hot on the incursion.
“thought I threw you in the lake of fire!”
but here you come again
like a
steaming
pink
dreamwalker
to re-insert yourself between
me
and the Light.
looks like it's back to the drawing board
and the careful steps across
tight ropes
made of
egg yolks -
the ones that actually hatched.
saw them in a soul - stream
sitting in stainless steel hatcheries.
some eggs as big as a house.

i think my inner feminine
has caught the postpartum -
too many ****** stillbirths.
here he comes again
riding in cold - hot
like
some unholy
frozen flame on the incursion.
here comes John the egregore -
progeny of my word.
here comes the red -
the color of frayed nerves .
i close my eyes
and think only of fields full of
lavender flowers.

my feet are used to this by now:
pirouettes
atop the tips of
chinese war swords
all staked along the manor grounds
like the impaler’s pikes,
or a field full of
lavender flowers,
or the facade pipes
where the ***** used to be
at St. James Episcopal
over on duke street and orange.

we gotta get to rewilding
this masculine.
his poor divinity
impaled upon
vladimir’s pikes.
squeezed the ******* back
to the contingency.
the carbon copied plan B’s.
the black hole sun
beckons like a death doula.
like the negative end
of a double A battery,
like the business end of a shotgun,
or the mean end of a snake
slithering through ten thousand
sanskaras
of his second chakra.
trying to climb up the
Antahkarana;
even with all that rope burn.

I was at the mercy of the
power of the horses.
six stampedes of
gelded steeds -
and hardly any blood quantum.
the true God is a blackened Light
in the sky
through the treetops
in the woods
standing in your boxers on 4 hits of acid
thirsty and alone at 3am
calling your brother on the phone
to tell him all about it…
speaking in tongues.

it took six parachutes
to stop this
polarity plummet.
i’ve been praying hail mary’s
all the day long.
some mornings
i wake up inside a song
floating on down the
River of Heaven in the midnight sky,
standing at the source of the
cosmic wellspring
bubbling and tumbling
under Gemini’s four feet.
the holy Twins on high,
dancing on the waters of the firmament,
sliding and gliding on behind the
sled dogs of the Sirius star.
standing
on the tips of two toes
atop a
Centaur's arrow,
or the tip of a
Chinese war sword.

sometimes
i think
a
midwife
and a
death doula
are two ways of
saying the same thing.

copyright Jordan Gee