Fading chorus to a sing-along rapture a laugh of clarification a hasty placement of hands and knees, dovetailed yes, those eyes ~ still lit and power-surged but give her a moment (...) for all the sudden it tickles
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
a torn heart, ripped eagerly, unwittingly, by gentlest fingers on pretty strings, a sweet voice with cracks like the sidewalks that take me home. tears streaming, i find that i am home, here, among the notes that tug at heartstrings— no, not tug, wrench. a closed fist over my soul, i couldn’t escape if i wanted to. jailed in this floral prison, there is nothing i want more than to listen as you take me apart.
pov anyone that can sing immediately has a hold on your soul
“I think there’s something wrong with you and that’s okay,” she sings with all her heart and strums the guitar with my pick. I’m in charge of the chords, holding the guitar so she can reach it where she sits. We dream it up together, but I phone it in I admit.
A, D, E - 1, 4, 5 - arbitrarily chose. She keeps it alive with her prose Just 5 years old A poet with her eyes closed.
You can be anything you want to be, and that’s okay as long as you’re happy.
Like she knows The greatest longings of the whole of humanity,
Like she’s peered into the depths of the vast ocean of broken hearts, And know this is the best place to start…
Like it’s easy.
“It’s okay”, she sings with closed eyes, and strums the guitar in musical bliss.
My vocal chords have been tattered The lyre in my throat has been sent on fire Now I can’t sing my songs to you Is it because my voice could have shaken the Earth? My lamentations could have been heard by the heavens there are so many things that I can’t say but they can be sung there is so much pain flowing in me and I want to scream on the top of my lungs but I have been stripped of my power
Now I can’t sing my songs to you Is it because my voice Could have changed the seasons? My melodies Could have turned the ocean tides I could have sung you love songs My hymns could have sent chills down your spine Like a distant winter long gone
But my strings have been plucked apart Is it because my Crescendo Could have taken light from the sky? My Vibrato Could have made the heartless cry My voice could have theft the moon of its beauty It could have stopped the skies It could have eclipsed the sunrise It could have harmonized with the larks It could have birthed the stars It could have made time get lost in itself It could have saved me from the depths It could have shown you divinity It could have made you fall in love with me
But the lyre has been set on fire Is it because my Harmony Could have done something not meant to be? My Symphony Could have made you feel love for me Now I sing softly in my solitude Hoping my whispers can reach out to you The whistles, and falsettos coming from my chest Are only capable of causing unrest
Looking back on you my dear Eurydice You’re a lost cause For my enchanting voice is long gone
Like the choir in heaven, Like the death of my eleven, Like the many who have tragically died. There’s a devil over yonder, And she’s getting a little closer, And what’s the point, If it’s not played, In blue?
And the trees outside keep dying, My shattered windows keep lying, I keep myself alive like god sleeping on the seventh. Stray cat, come back home. You’ll step on glass if you roam. God, what’s the point, If I’m not there, With you?