Fasting first
then ritual
and the
mushroom
burst forth
and spoke
through me
in a voice
saturated
with a little
cosmic giggle.
It's message
short,
"I am the
creature of
the depths
come to say:
Life's a game
death's a game
it's all a game,
so play."

As I am affronted
the response is
to the simple.
It burrows in corners
and hides in creases,
residing in the cutest of dimples.
Body derelict like a crumbling temple.

This thing is evil-
or I am for sure.
One thing is true
drop the others to the floor.
A black and white,
grey on holiday.
A swinging shape I'm
sure will manifest
into a sword one day.

And it's coming for me.
There's no other device.
No time for this guy to be
approachable, no time for
this guy to be nice.
I'm fighting for my life,
but I can reason with the knife.
It doesn't have to make sense,
I've just had it up to the temple tonight.

And I ask it how it came here,
what it wants to protect.
I thank it for its service but
I can't seem to connect.
This situation doesn't look
like a lion on my tail.
I stomp my feet and flail my
arms inside this inflated hell.

I name it and it laughs at me,
it's name is not a word.
It's known by screams
and pleas for mercy
like nothing you've ever heard.
Its job is to overwhelm
me with life and concepts long interred.
A fear that's hidden deep behind
an obvious thing like hate.
I approach ad infinitum,
to make this devil meditate.

A hundred and eight prayer beads.
A mantra to stand and fight.
A weapon of intent,
of magical will;
A word of power and light.
Just get me through this night-

Our feelings aren't based in logic.
We use tools on a budget.
Report the numbers and don't fudge it.
Be honest with the others,
Be honest with the self.

What am I aligned
to make of this?
And have I given up on magic
if I don't?

Gentle oracle,
some things
just happen to us.

You aren't alone
despite spirits
not showing the interest
you desire,
but I taste your emptiness.

I desire a control too.

Despair of
silence from the gods.
Demarcate reality
from the hatred and
the odds.

Moving coals
under bedrock of ash
and I'm hung on
to a one percent.

Not playing,
but tending fire's
tumultuous crash
in this hopeful
Autumn's descent.

Burn the dross with
steady heat.
Constant regulation
under furnace's feet.
Not too hot,
not too cold.
Steadily discover
the Goldilocks zone.

There's a blackening,
then the white-
before red comes
into play.
And there we find
the malleability
we seek for
every day.

Bleed me like the root
that burns sins away.

Find me green with envy
along the Mica veins.

Sermons over tiny crescents,
Jack-in-the-pulpit given.

Ghostpipe smoking
with incense risen.

-

Fern's red flower.
Trumpets, devil played.

Creeping by the hour,
Periwinkle's struggle inlaid.

Spirals, the vine choking,
Birch witnessed it all.

An elongated anticipation
before the king snake's fall.

Morning light-
mourning light.
"O Night I miss
you so.
Fastest in the
universe but for
our love too slow."