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Jordan Gee Feb 2022
It all started with a walk through a graveyard.
We came to sprinkle glitter,
we came to ring the claw bells,
we came to read the eroded epitaphs on 200 year old tombstones.
Instead we found a “working” aimed at killing someone.
A black bird without a head.
Lopped clean off.
Some kind of voodoo.
Consecrated with a dark blessing by a tombstone.
Naturally we took the bird home.
Laid it out back in the freeze.
It was a “working” aimed at killing someone.
A santera over on east King street informed us of the details.
Told us to burn it and take a sweet bath.
Told us to put water next to the door to catch the demons off our shoes,
tracking in all the demons off the street.
I put water next to my bed to catch the demons in my sleep.
I wondered to myself just what exactly was going on.

A cat got to the bird before we could
but it left us the wings by the fence in the yard.
Monica stretched them open and now they are drying in the garage.
A set of wings to fan the smoke once we light the sage on fire.
I didn’t have a good feeling.
I wanted to burn the black bird.
I wanted to stop the “working”.
I wanted to leave a green pumpkin for Oshun by the waterside.
But instead I only watched it lying on the leaves
out back under a tree
from the kitchen window each time I did the dishes.
Then one morning it was gone,
but I didn’t say anything.
I thought about other things until I saw
the stretched wings in the garage,
until I pulled the Raven card from
the Oracle deck.
Black birds came to visit me.
I was advised I better start getting crafty.
I had been diligent with the water by the bed.
I purified the demons with the singing bowl every morning.
I bless my demons in the water so they don’t use
my mouth to scream
and my eyes to cry.
But the raven came to see me still.
The one without a head, and the one in the oracle deck.
And the ones that fly around the power lines outside where I walk,
cawing and cackling in a crooked ******.

Fancied myself a priest
baptized by the Holy Spirit
home of the Sacred Feminine.
Found myself screaming in hysterics like a little boy in his blanket
after he's told nothing shall be as it was.
So much for the priest hood.
So much for the New Earth.
I pulled the Tower Card.
And that,
along with the ravens
and old man Saturn…
I had never been so afraid for my body in my life.
Now we walk around town and find bird heads on the sidewalk.
Starlings, and a little wren.
I learned my demon’s name is John and that he stands behind me.
Big and wooly like a wild thing on two legs.
He doesn’t fit in a glass of water
so I brought him to the Lemon Street Cemetery
and said bon voyage.
Buried him by a gravestone tree stump and said the prayer of two deaths.
The walk home smelled like ginkgo nuts
and the dust from the crumbing of the Tower hasn’t settled yet.
Now it’s as if I've been inoculated.
I lost my sense of taste for a week and didn’t break a sweat.
I’ve pulled the rug out from under my own
two feet so many times
that if I don’t learn to levitate
my poor tailbone won’t have a chance to heal.
Home of the root
Abode of the World Serpent.
I wasn’t prepared for what was awoken within me
that day up in the promised land,
and it's been climbing my spine ever since.
Now I bless the water by my bedside every night
in case John comes back to roost.

I cover my floors with happy feet
I paint the walls with candle light
I light frankincense and tie prayers to the smoke
I watch them float to heaven
I ring a singing bowl
I put the demons in the water and I drink them.
I see the demons i forgive the demons i am the demons
Jordan Gee Feb 2022
early retirement                                           2.11.22 Mercury/Pluto conjunction

I’ve been cracking jokes lately,
when in the company of others.
When there was an opening in the conversation
I would insert a comment;
I would joke about my life in early retirement.
I would joke and say that I am retired.
It's obviously funny because I’m only 35;
fairly early in my second Saturn returns.

Over the last 18 months I’ve made modest acquisitions
fit for a retiree;
house slippers, a few extra lines in my face and
even a piccolo pipe with dark cherry Cavendish tobacco.  
They all fit rather nicely,
(according to my eyes)
when worn with my gray cardigan with the red whip stitch
suring up the right pocket;
the same cardigan I wore the night of the accident and the
morning of the ward.
That was an equinox to remember.

Maybe it's in poor taste to joke about early retirement.
Perhaps that it isn’t very funny to go on about,
or maybe it was only funny to me.
It hadn’t quite occurred to me until now that
it may be kind of awkward for a grown man to crack
funnies about his lack of income or industriousness.
I suppose I just gave myself a pass.
Because I figured everyone already knows I’m
a little unhinged-
a little ungrounded-
certainly a bit touched…
and that “he just needs time to heal because he is
an activated Light Worker and the benefits reaped
by his inner struggle to anchor the
Light upon the Earth plane is in everyone’s best interest,
and that it takes an untold exertion of Will to exact such an incarnation,
and that it takes more than a few several months for the
risen Kundalini to come to maturation.
Quick, can someone please get me a tourmaline.

Well, here I am in
southern Jersey
Manchester Township
Ocean County
Riverside retirement community
side of the pond (man made)
composite bench under a gazebo erected on a concrete pad.
Sitting inside my cardigan next to my piccolo pipe and a pen in my hand,
wondering how I could feel so lost and so found at the same time.

I’ve been a stubborn *******.
Afraid to bear my Light within my hands and
expose it to my kin in a meaningful way.
But here I am,
early retirement
on an early afternoon
in a retirement community
full of elders
slinkin through the
early dusk of the
twilight of their lives.
And I don't like it.
I am not equanimous with what is.
I’ve excreted so many toxins that the
re-uptake is nearly too much to bear.
I’ve carried empty green notepads in my back pocket for years.
Pen and pad with scotch tape holding down the binding;
worth about three or four poems max.
“Yea I fancy myself a writer, just not very prolific.”
You can only speak something into being so many times
before the universe starts agreeing with you.
Old man Saturn couldn’t give a **** about
little fears and excuses.
The limits of necessity were only
bad wiring
rendered by
my own hand.
And that goes down smooth like a fish-bone in the throat.

I own enough scarves and robes to
circumambulate the globe a few times.
If only I could fly
it would be in such style
because on the outside I look how I want to feel on the inside.
Before my heart center I hold the dharmachakra mudra and
I stare into a candle flame.
I could of sworn they prescribed this treatment
early in the Rig Veda for guys with ailments like mine;
running mad like beside his shadow and
fleeing all the house flies;
sliding down the side of a waxing crescent moon.

only the moon it is a scythe;
a crescent knife.
Waning in early retirement,
old man Saturn coming for his life.
death and the sickle
hebrew rope
and a buffalo nickle
Jordan Gee Feb 2022
Will the apocalypse be one of fire?
Will it have the aftertaste of sulfur and asphalt?
Beware the madness and the mania and 8 eyes on a face…
Quick! fill the bathtub with water - I hear sirens.
I saw a wheelchair and it was on fire - rolling down the avenue,
certainly an omen, if nothing else.
I sat on a bus with three strangers leaving Point Loma, California.
One guy was reading the same book as me.
Wild Comanches, Lords of the Plains, Enemy of Everyone.
It was the taste of sulfur and asphalt when the Comanche horde came
riding over the hills like Genghis Khan, kicking up dust devils with their horses' hooves.
It was a smoky plume of final endings way out on the staked plains of the high Texas prairie.
-10 degrees celsius and the rain is liquid, still.
It's been raining warm milk and ambrosia.
We’re feeding from the Breast of the Sacred Mother.
We’re gnawing on the bone of the Law of the Holy Father,
His Holy Word tumbling down into our ear holes.
65,000 national landmarks strewn about a major American City,
And even all the row homes’ tofu facades fell off and crumbled into dust
like the expression on my face once I learned the true scope of what I’ve done.
3 shakes of a lamb’s tail doesn’t cover the time it takes the
man in the mirror to skin my whole hide.
Sometimes the honesty of my reflection is the scariest part.
3 shakes of the snakes rattle and I'm already off into the Astral,
floating half lotus on a sheep skin.
Sulfur and asphalt?
No.
I’ve climbed and transcended that frequency’s ladder.
The Bardo is in my rear-view with eight legs and
my silver cord dangling from behind.
I’ve hosted my egregore for four o’clock tea and crumpets.
I slid down my silken sutratma
back into my heart
and I can smell only
flowers and embroideries.
Songs of grace and truth sifting through my ivory grill
welling up from the living wellspring of my devotion and
smack dab onto instagram.
Only 3 grams short.
I found my heart in the upper room,
hoisted up by the feather at the opposite end of the scale.
10 sleeps from here to the Black Madonna.
What came first?
The ego or the ****** Birth?
There ain’t no apocalypse gonna scare me
I break a 3 day juice fast with a bowl of sulfur and
there’s flowers growing up through the pavement.
Three ***** of a crow’s wing and
the smoke of my sage fills all the lungs of the World Mother,
the Black Madonna and a can of gas.
Ain’t no apocalypse gonna scare me.
I fly to the Comanche moon and back on a set of butterfly wings.
One bottle of Bufo Alveris and I blew straight out the top of the Causal Egg.
Hardened and vitalized by the sheer weight of the cocoon.
Sometimes to let them struggle is to save their life.
Three hairs plucked from Shiva’s Body and planted like apple seeds
and you get a grove full of
fruit trees that will never
go fallow,
whither
and die.
I’ve been to the Bardo.
And you wouldn’t believe how loud a man can scream.
I rode all seven stars of the Pleiades back down into my body;
crashed the car somewhere along 81
near Goldsborough exit, Lackawanna Co. PA.
All I wanted was a blanket to shield me from the shrill howling
of the wind.
But Orion got to me first and I came close to truly losing my mind.
But what is heaven for the spider…
is chaos to the fly.
And there ain’t no apocalypse that ever scared me.
its cold in the bardo
Jordan Gee Dec 2021
I used to hang out in abandoned buildings.
Old machine shops with puddles of rainwater pooled up on the floor;
sun or star light visible between broken and failing rafter beams
and the holes in the ceiling and my eyes.
Sometimes there would be particle board hammered into the brick
where heavy glass windows once stood;
tacked all about with bright yellow and pink postings warning
people like me to stay out and to not trespass under penalty of law.
The warning signs made me nervous because I don’t like to get in trouble.
Sometimes I would notice abandoned spaces while
driving up route 11 - Scranton, Pennsylvania.
I would park and discern through google maps on how
to gain access to yet another relic of American industry before
Wall Street reinvented slavery and shipped the spirit
of the Rust Belt to Mexico and Bangladesh and China and
various sweatshops overseas.

I had a lot of spare time to walk up and down the Wyoming Valley, northeast PA,
looking for the abandoned skeletons of buildings
into which I could furtively enter and abide.
Friday night, long week, punch the clock, no plans - no problem.
It was me and my two feet,
a long walkabout winding through the annals of my memories,
maybe some take out for dinner and all is well.
Don’t get me wrong, I had friends.
I’ve been to many places and I’ve seen many things.
I’ve faced many hardships but I always found a
posse or a partner with whom I could abide in peace and cheerful community.
That is before I would up and leave them abandoned in the wreckage of
my slow motion odyssey of self destruction;
dusting the bones of my many friendships with the many
chem trails from the many jet planes from the many tickets booked
by my father to save me from the many demons gnawing on my neck and heart.
Goodbye florida. Good bye guam. Goodbye california.

Abandoned buildings are safe.
There is a comforting predictability in their steady dilapidation.
There are no standards of social etiquette by which to adhere.
There is no small talk through which manufactured smiles show their teeth.
There are no ****** expressions and body postures to monitor
and reflect back what adjustments in countenance and demeanor I must make.

My face was a Greco-Roman mask.
Stretched and dried out, suspended somewhere between a comedy and a tragedy.
My face is the furthest frontier of my soul song,
the outermost edge of my heart.
That through which sound passes.
my face is a tan hide
Jordan Gee Dec 2021
God gave me a blood orange.
He stamped my hands with Hebrew letters.
It can take time for this to fruit in the physical.
I swallowed another shadow last night.
It wore burlap for a veil and tried convincing me it
was an Angel.
I half believed it until I caught it pouring
agent orange about the rose bushes by the driveway.
I could not abide by that -
so i swallowed it.

In my dreams I swim inside an orange grove
(somewhere near the south end of the Salinas Valley, California.)
The migrant farm hands file along the rows with
wicker baskets full of dried rose petals;
Hebrew lettering stamped across their hands.

I thought I heard the lambs and the horses screaming,
but in actuality it was the burlap angels
fleeing for their life as Hannibal the Great marched  
across the Alps with war elephants and wailing trumpets
and saddlebags full of sharpening stones.
I peeled open a blood orange,
fruit from the womb of the World Mother.
I saved and dried the rinds as
I thanked the Most High for the bounty.
Jordan Gee Nov 2021
Heaven is an Eye fixed atop a triangle
embossed along panes of stained glass
in a burst of color and
embedded on a transom above
an arrangement of young Amish girls -
one of them flipping me the bird.
white bonnets shining inside the dark street
and red reflections of the night.

God is in a mirror
reflected across one thousand other mirrors
held by a single hand and adjusted thereby
so that the light would be refracted through
a bent corridor in time
bending and extending through
far away dimensions that
i don't even know about.

Beauty lies in the 6 skinny trees
i water on the fifth day
drinking coffee when i see
one thousand rose petals drying
like the shores of the salton sea
and the six trees like a
hexagram of six dragons
like Heaven over Heaven in the sky.

one time I saw this image in my mind
when i closed my eyes
a vision of fire shaped like a phoenix
burned across the red horizon of my mind.
beyond the black behind the lids of my eyes
there is a red horizon over inner city deserts,
bird beaks buried in the sand.

I must honor the body’s lived experience
yet not give it any credence over Spirit.
its like i was being taken over and consumed
by a Greater Being.
it pressed all my memories up against hard glass.
different angles through extra spectrums -
it was raining hard prisms
It was like laser beams everywhere.
like heaven over heaven in the sky.

I was ripping off layers like a nest
of ten rattlesnakes tangled up in braided rope.
now there are magnets that float around inside my head.
there are times i don’t know if I’m doing the thinking - or the listening -
or whose doing the talking but
there are magnets floating in my cerebral spinal fluid
and they are electric and they are on fire.
and if i only had binoculars then I could see the singularity,
the gift of eternal life at the eschaton.

Heaven is the wind that lifts me up by the insides.
i  relax so deeply into the present sometimes
i forget to breathe -
were it not for the magnets inside my spine
pulling me toward the singularity and
the eschaton and the Bright Lights.

there are such amazing playlists on spotify
artists and genres i’ve never even heard of.
thank God someone figured out what
these emotions sound like.
benedictions in southern pennsylvania
on the JBL charge 4
and i think i’m starting to accept
that life in the earth plane is
a baptism by electric fire.

Glory be to God in the highest for
sending me His messenger
winging words made of silver helix
strands of vibrating concept complexes
so the mercury can bring the sulfur to the salt.

I throw my head back and laugh like a junkyard dog.
i’ve been searching for the philosopher’s stone for years!
i just called the chase by other names
and searched for it where i thought it was to be found,
where they told me it would be:
court street and MLK blvd, Newark, NJ,
trap house, Grant St, Hazelton, PA,
the American Club, red light district, Agana, Guam.
somewhere in the Pacific or a fist full of wax bags
from my partner ****’ down pembroke outside bethlehem, PA
and a ten pack of clean B and Ds, small gauge,
waiting for me on his kitchen table.
Heaven over Heaven in the sky.

I checked my phone over three hundred times today.
mostly this is a wretched habit of unconscious hand but
quite often the Everywhere Spirit gives me personalized
messages of rapid ascension via all the “woke” social media handles.
there is a fire inside my heart and it burns me from the inside.
sometimes it opens so wide you can fit the whole world in there
and not lose any elbow room.
and the magnets carry me to the tallest pedestal in the
sky where everyone can hear and
i tell them everything is going to be ok.
i’ve seen the bad path and i’ve walked it
and God placed magnets in my blood and
i made it back alive and all the church bells are ringing.

the Holy Ghosts of our ancestors rejoice for the
cutting of the silver chords so they can
all fly away home to heaven.
and through the grave yards that lost their church bells with the churches
i walk with bells in my hands and i ring them so
that all the ghosts can go home.

we had a heart opener one night.
we all sat around the floor and opened our hearts for each other.
they opened so wide that it rained electric fire to
where everyone could see it and that makes
for a good memory.
but nothing is as it seems,
nor is it otherwise
and my heart can suddenly slam closed like
the cellar door of leatherface’s texas prairie
subterranean basement lair.
and i’ve been there before
but the fire in my heart shines upon the faces
of the all devil’s dark armada
and they don’t scare me anymore,
such is the brilliance of the flame,
and such is the pull of the magnets god placed inside my blood.

its been more than ten winters since court street, newark.
but to this day i think sometimes about
that frozen cat lying by the curb.
stiff from all the jersey winter night prowlin
freezing up it’s blood.
my heart was closed that day,
hiding all my fire.
but if I saw that cat today, why…
i would open my heart so wide that
winter would be no more and
all the frozen hearts of our fathers and our mothers
would burst wide with such love that
the Earth would tremble and all the
neutron stars would shoot across the
red horizons of our mind
and the light of heaven would be
reflected in the mirrors of our eyes.
and this light would be so bright that
all the archangels and the devas would
be out of a job.

God is in the pinprick of light
fastened to the back of the
long tunnels of my eyes.
God is in the space after the release
of my preoccupation with the opinions others hold of me
God is in the street light shining on an
amish girl flipping me the bird.

By Jordan Gee
those who to Earth from Heaven came.
Jordan Gee Sep 2021
the words were like a healing balm
for my heart.
I would sit
indian style in the corner of the couch
reading and waiting
every single night.
with the same Harold Budd song playing,
every night.
one cup of dandi-blend from the kitchen and
a one-hitter of a fire blend
fed - exed to a friend in York
from somewhere out in California.
Monica would ask me the name of it;
if I preferred it over the last -
honestly, I forget the names of both.
I just needed the final part to this container of the
inner peace that I build,
every single night.
this container to hold me tight,
with a book,
here on the corner of the couch
listening to Brian Eno and Harold Budd,
predictable, and as a healing balm for the heart.
two pulls off a nameless strain and it makes me
feel better when I smoke it so really
what else do I need to know?

I carried bowling bags filled with
singing bowls made of
bronze and
a thirty - two inch gong
inside a venue tonight.
downtown York where the hip and the relevant come
to train each other in the leading etiquette of the day.
I called myself a pack - mule
even though I was nearly replaced
by a wagon weighted for at least
one hundred and fifty pounds.
mules are more sure footed than a handcart,
but I’m a whole person
and you’re only as relevant as you
convince other people you are.
three shakes of the smoked salt and a
frozen shoulder at half capacity and its
only 8pm but
I’m so tired, babe.
tomorrow I’ll be fresh and ready to go because tonight I’m
sleeping through the night.
and if I don’t then at least you’ll have
the cooler
with the ice packs
next to the bed with the towell
and some tylenol
and my blue goblet of the midnight bathroom sink tap - water.

water retains all the love you can give it and turns it into
diamonds and snowflakes when you say nice things to it
and I’m made of almost 80% water so tell me you love me, babe.
turn me into a crystal diamond and get me my shoes
we’re walking ALL the way to market today.
no more silly talk of nabbin that abandoned wheelchair off the porch
up the street.
because I’m healing and you’re healing, do you see?
our cells know what to do,
we just have to think
happy thoughts now.
so bring on the serotonin and
some neuropeptides and
call me Peter Pan.

but he’s brooding
and in a mood today
and the sidewalk is made of
eggshells.
the sun is setting under a
harvest moon and
I think that
he thinks
that he’s still like that
old leather indian woman,
all hollowed out and
for ages
standing stiff
inside a crevice
in a cliff wall.
but that is a tired old tune and he’s been playing it for years and
somehow he still has a hold of that
rusted old flute his mom played
when she was in kindergarten.
only now it sounds like blowing hot air through a
broken toy train whistle.
yet the tune plays on and its shrill against the night but
at least we have each other
and at least we know we’re healing.

blessings and abundance rain down and abound.
the only proper response is gratitude.
I have suffered many hardships and seen many things,
you must let me bring you to your people or you will surely die.
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