Golden Sphere

The golden sphere rolls over the floor and the sound rattles all of us. A delighted laugh is heard but no one is smiling. Not that I can see. I look at each of the guests for a clue but nothing is revealed.

A woman with red hair is looking in through the window. The sky behind her is black and full of stars.

The golden sphere does not stop. It rolls between our feet, bumps against the walls, gaining speed with each collision.

My fingers tingle. I move them over my head and they leave colorful streaks through the air, traces of my thoughts, left unguarded; my suspicions laid bare for all to see.

There is a wet scent of earth and trees, the subtle sound of old men talking, a taste of herbal tea in my mouth. Nothing makes sense, nothing fits together. There is no pattern, no sense of purpose or cause.

I have forgotten nearly everything by the time the golden sphere hits my foot.

Now the time has come. I need nothing else. Just my breath, the sphere, the stars outside, and my thoughts, colorful translucent shapes slowly fading over my eyes.

Seer Of Dreams

War
came as though we did not expect it
the bubbles in the river told me,
water spoke to me
and soon, as the rain came,
the puddles were red and
glassy.
It came as though we were not expecting it
though the clouds had gathered on the hillsides and
above the olive groves and even
on the little mountain we so lovingly cared for.
In winter and spring and when the
proud foxgloves sprout like mad,
little white faces peering out of every crevice to face the
mother of all, the people of fire,
our source.

Are not the stories
filled with battles?
Dreams and desire for wretched glory.
Do the men not sing and
recall anguish and defeat out there
beyond the three rivers?

War came,
they were expecting it.
It is not incompatible
with life, it is life.
Men are born and taken.
On hands and knees they crawl
towards it, a great gleaming goddess.

I am the one who is frightened
who does not fit in,
I see it coming,
see it here
see the wounds
the bleeding.
It is I who does not sing the songs
kiss the marching.
And yet they rumble through me
like nursery rhymes
and lick at my fingertips.
I am the one who rips my
dress to rags and runs naked
through the streets.
I am the mad one
The liar
The seer of dreams.

I Can See Her Now

I can see her now

Stretching for miles
while dancing
lonely in the moonlight,
White long dress
and black flowing hair
Trailing behind her
like the tail of a comet,
Feet gliding over the asphalt
Of a dark empty street,
Touched by rain and wind
Cradled in the warm embrace
The invisible arms
of the endless black night.

I can see her now
Out of the corner of my eye
Eating the remains of the dead
While others gorge on hope,
On dreams of what could be
Of what could someday happen.
I can see her
Laughing at their pain
At their painful smiles
And their cackling cries
Big belly bouncing up and down
Rolls of thick flesh
making waves of pasty skin
Waves that begin everywhere
And end nowhere.

I can see her now
Even if I turn away
Her smile is ever present,
Her eyes have the knowing gaze
Of the one that knows
How it all turns out
In the end.
I can see her now
But I wish I could forget her
And then be reminded
In a sudden flash of lightning
As the Real meets my Illusion
And all fantasies come to an end.

The Offering

The car came to a full stop at the edge of the long lawn that curved away from the road on the northwestern side of the park. The car was a small blue compact, covered in scratches and holes where the paint was peeling and bumper stickers proclaiming freedom and power and revolution and truth. Three girls walked out of the car smiling. They came to stand together on the dirt path that separated the asphalt from the lawn. All three girls were dressed in black, one in a short black dress, another in black shirt and black skirt, and yet another in a black T-shirt and black jeans. The one in the dress was the youngest and her face was peppered with freckles, her hair was blonde and her eyes were wide open and eager. The one in the black skirt was the oldest and her face was long and thin and her eyes were narrow and full of suspicion and her chin protruded like a broken ledge and her hands and arms were thin and moved through the air with slow gracefulness. The one in pants had streaks of red and pink and green on her hair and she had deep black lines of make up under her eyes and her arms were thicker and she stood with her legs slightly apart as if preparing for a fight. They stood in a small circle on the brown road of dirt and pebbles and they looked at each other. The oldest one leaned forward and smiled, and the others responded by bowing and smiling as well. Then the oldest one started to walk down the incline of the lawn, towards one of the several empty picnic tables that stood close to the dark bushes that outlined the wide curves of grass. The other two followed, moving quietly, eyes fixed on their leader.
The leader came to the bench and sat on the surface of the table, with her feet on the bench, and she turned around to look at her friends who were just behind her. Her legs were very white and they were shining with the sunlight of the early afternoon as she crossed them and leaned back.
“Are you both clear on what we are doing?”
The youngest girl stood nervously to her right and nodded. The tough girl nodded as well and shrugged her shoulders slightly.
“As clear as I can be, I guess…”
“No,” the leader said, “I want to know that you are very clear, I want to know that there are no questions left behind at all.”
The younger girl shook her head swiftly, “no questions, no questions at all.”
The tough girl nodded and frowned, “I don’t have any questions…”
“Then we will look for the gifts…” she took out a small bag made of black cloth and placed it carefully on the table. She opened it and looked inside. “When you find what you find, bring it over and put it in here…”
All three then went their separate ways, around the lawn itself, behind the bushes, through the trail that led back to the soccer fields and even around it to the hidden lawn and the darker areas full of trees where the grass was taller and the afternoon was not as warm. The young girl looked around carefully as she walked, and every once in a while her eyes would come to rest on a bit of twig, or a loose leaf, or a loose pebble or even a flat stone. She would then pick up the object and bring it back to the black bag that waited on the table. The tough girl did the same, but moved faster and with more decisiveness. She made two or three trips in the same time that the younger girl did one. She went further away and brought back some small brown rocks from the other side of the soccer field and some little purple flowers from behind the big dark bushes on the other side of the road. The older girl stayed close to the bag but still looked for what was there, and managed to find many bits of bark and little pebbles and even a tiny shiny rock. It all went into the black bag. When the leader determined that they had enough, she asked them to stop. She tied the bag with a small piece of light white rope and they walked over to one of the most prominent bushes, just a few feet away from the table.
“We offer this gift to the goddess, as an act of sacrifice and love for the many gifts that she has chosen to offer us,” she spoke slowly and in a very soft voice that seemed to trail off with the slight breeze that was flowing through the long empty lawn.
“We offer this gift to the goddess in a sincere act of humility, with our hearts opened and our minds at ease,” said the young girl and she blushed slightly as the other two looked at her with crisp attention.
“We offer this to the goddess for her powerful presence and her infinite wisdom, that she may continue to share her abilities with us who are only her servants,” said the tough girl and the others nodded and smiled at her.
The leader then tied the loose end of the white rope to one of the thicker branches of the dark green bush and, for a moment, they all stared at the black bag as it dangled in the midst of a world of light brown twigs, green leaves and pregnant shadows. After a few minutes went by, the leader turned to them and smiled broadly, and let out a long full breath. “It is done… now we can go back…”
And they walked back to the car together, in the same formation as they had come.

The All Seeing Boy

The age of your son clouds my imagination. Why does a boy shorter than most doorknobs have gray hair? Under what stress have you put his body under? What has he seen between the cracks of doors? Is his reality colored by cartoon books and stuffed animals with squashed faces and missing eyes? Does he live in an imagined world of sorcerers and captains with missing teeth? Or does he fret about his missing breakfast cereal, long gone and another never coming. Does he worry about his cold hands that have cracked in the grooves where his fingers meet? Has he thought about soldiers dying in the field, their bloody mouths calling for Maria, the mother of all? Have you told him that lie too?
Take your head out from the foggy London streets. There are no virgins here. The signs are everywhere. It comes with every fifth thought. On the ground is a stick shaped like an aroused man. There, in the tree trunk, is a raised knot shaped like a pleading ass hole, forever teasing, forever waiting for a branch to plunge inside. This isn’t just the directing of a foul mind, it’s nature, screaming for death and finding renewal. Crying for release and creating another.
The Christian band cannot play another song. I refuse.
I have cut their plastic strings in my silver teeth and made men from their cocks. The cords are severed, their mics lay as dust beneath my bare feet. The verses from scripture have turned blond-headed flocks into pudding-headed dolls that deny the laws of matter. Logic lays lifeless in their hands. Science, beheaded long ago. Come to me dressed in purple satin and perhaps you may find the real mother of all. Her thighs are wet, her mouth smells of faint fish and sweat. Her torn garments hang from her neck like ribbons from a maypole, rainbow colored and spotted with red. Her loins are torn…and open.
Virgin!
Our need for death comes before our first word. There is no virgin. Purity is for those who shut their minds to our defiled nature. It comes as naturally as birth, and yet you hide it in underground caves. We can see it leaking! Your purity is black and red, coloring the clouds for miles with your subverted lust. I am a seed of their lust, a creation of two robots fucking for death.
And they did, yet…continued to breathe.
And I, before my first steps, sought for death as well. And though I have imagined better, though I have sometimes worked to elevate my knowledge beyond the first few words of the dictionary; I am still remedial, lacking vocabulary, lacking intention. My thoughts fade as another wave of music drowns my crumbling skull. And then, drifting…I remember.
Have you ever understood that the nights in London where nothing but a nightmare drenched in colorful glass and sequined lingerie that fell for the first customer? They poured a fifth of their liquor into the piss-stained streets and still, you were able to walk down the marble steps without losing your teeth. Without losing the rest of your heart. I saw you directing rats in the sewers. They came to us from underground tunnels coated in grease. They came from villages and attics clogged in dust and broken Christmas lights, from the baker down the street and the dream that still clings to my consciousness.
The band lies broken and used while rats feast on the remaining lyrics. Dressed in ancient clothes that smell of mildew and lavender, your boy sings a sad song, seeing it all, despite the window you have shut.