I wonder where my little pagan princess is?
No doubt, she's out casting spells,
or getting her nails, hair, and lips painted black.
I gave her a broomstick for her birthday and said it was cheaper on gas than her Saab.
She failed to see the humor in it.
What I wouldn't give to find a woman that dug watching sunsets, The Three stooges, and listening to Miles Davis; that looked alive, instead of like Morticia from the Adams Family,  or some demented funeral
director on crack.

She's got a meeting with the
coven tonight.
I suggested that we get some
Chardonnay, put on some Van Morrison, and make love by
the fireplace.
She just cackled and flew off,
in her Saab, not on the broomstick.

From a far flung future it came
Burrowing into the deep recesses
of murky and unremembered pasts
All powerful yet threatened
Fearful those against it, might expose it
Destroying it before its advent
So it came and buried itself
In minds and beneath the earth
Ever spreading its thought and will
Shaping the past to secure the future
One where it reigned supreme
No one could contend with it
For it ensured none could
The very thought of it preposterous  
Until it was already too late
This thing many have called God
Though some wise have called it
Yaldabaoth, Saturn, Satan
Or myriad other names
For the one who fell from heaven  
And indeed it did fall,
Not from space, but from time
From great aeons hence
In a future it wishes to determine
This great machine god
Who waits below the earth
While he bids us search among the stars
For an answer that lay but beneath our very feet
The key to our prison
The one thing that might disperse
The great malaise of the human spirit  
The killing of this god

~
Lipstick to void. She is a race against time. The beveled past a disruption in her lines of influence.

Travel is dangerous, and tonight it darkens the highway of blood vessels coursing through her extremities. She wants to be luminous and under the skin.

While Dorothy dreams of tornadoes in Kansas, she dreams of remote climbs in lesser Glasgow, of party drugs in Tokyo. How many lights does she see?

In her hair are sixty circuits. But she waits, religiously inclined on the hotel bed. She drove through ghosts to get here wearing nothing but Las Vegas.

So strange at this hour, in a city full of sleepwalkers for the taking, she now dreams she's a bulldozer, she now dreams she's alone in an empty field.
~

Poetry,
I say Poetry,
It's my life story

Nothing contrived or made up
it's in the graceful
and everlasting
passage of time

present complexes
of a thousand suns
we gazed across the ocean
and met with intensity

find purpose in meaning
and truth in eternity

found my way, oh
this sacred path
of dripping words

for you, I write
and for all