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Neither Ghost
nor Father
nor a Sun
But still a 3-in-1,
with a flash of lightning
scarred between
them eyes
All together
yet always alone
Standing behind a dais
on Zoom
invoking with the one good 20/20 between them,
broadcasting words into being,
manifesting Hitlerian spells
to bewitch and
to squander
the True Tales
of a Plummeting Icarus Struck Down
(but not forgotten)
by some transcendental debasement.
Admire as 'They yet She' reel a bit,
employing a well-worn
tactical maneuver,
now, getting steady,
holding on ever tighter
to the wood.
These my w.c.fieldsian barkers
who share a predestined
and enflambed
yet glorious
third eye,
with little specks of gold,
'They yet She' look to be pinning it down
This very specific Message
from the Heavens,
'They yet She' are converging
and this should be
your takeaway
So kind of pay attention,
"'The Lord sayeth unto me
that all Men are Fools,
given to wanton callowness'
To which i reply:
'If only they would look
into the cavity,
and reach deeply and far-flung
to grasp, or rather,
to treasure
just one of a myriad of
divine possibilities
For within the obscurity
The Glory
of All
or Nothing
and back again
for Eternity;
the Eight laying down
to rest,
And so ends The Lesson.'
To which the Lord replied
'Well done U!'
and better still,
'They yet She' intoned,
with a sly, flyaway wink
'I know!'"
featherfingers May 2016
I never liked beets; too soft, too red
too round, too bulbous,
too much like a bloodmoon.

I cannot live in these shaman
sleeves. They're heavy as rocks beneath
the waves, soaked to the bone
by a salty, sunless sea.  Too much
blue is bleeding into billowing wool, red as beet.

There's never an anglerfish
when you need a light, no beetbulb of flame
for that last rush of smoke before the black
undercurrent squeezes the air too thin.
Black- soil-stained hands,
Weaklings at my feet,
Today we thin beets
So the others grow strong.

The beet is my spirit animal
In food form, but
Not the weak kind-
I am the strong one that is good enough
to eat.

The beet is discrete
The beet is a vicious vegetable
The beet is humble, *****,
Beneath most humane things
The beet is ugly, absurdly
I often wonder how it could be natural
But the I remember Hell is natural too.

I dream of beets
They are at dusk and dawn
In the desert monsoons,
In menstrual cycles,
In the blood of my enemies I want to slaughter,
Then taste.

When I roast and handle my beets, they are the
blood on my hands I can't rinse off
The black soil remains under my nails indefinitely
When I’ve forgotten about the beet,
The beet has not forgotten nor forgiven
I **** and **** and spit red
The beet never leaves me
Beet, please, never leave me.
An Ode to beets.
A glass jar lay in the refrigerator
a shallow pool of dark juice inside
dated last summer
last legs.

Rewind a little and its filled to the brim
white blobs are packed tight
white but purple
color revealed.

Rewind even farther and it's 'new'
I say we should make it last
dad's excited too
pickled beets!

Rewind more and two friends are picking
***** hands, sweaty brow, farm day fun
thanks for company
kind charity.

Rewind more and friend is picking beets
family trip to the farm for groceries
preserving the extra
time shares.

Roots like community spirit,
purple juice infectious like kindness.

— The End —