find a sacred trial

it's important to be very clear
and strict and rational right now.
dunno why. superstition has made my life
so rich, battling demons not mine
but echoes of your life. i let my demons
crawl out the windows, or be transformed
by small doses of drugs.

i have no answers, only questions
that can't seem to articulate
themselves in the proper way
to query gods. mainly i guess
as to their structure, then move
my fingers in imitation of spells.


i think jack's right, i just need
to get out of my skin for a while.
step on a rainbow. become it.



















*(&&\



the truth is she doesn't know where to begin
this close to the end. she could go over
the way her choices enriched her, the fact of choices
being a blessing,not curse. how knowing
but not believing in yourself is perhaps
the slyest curse, while believing in yourself
and little else is the most painful.
most path of most resistence.
why did she have to be a root on the river bank
a pebble in a shoe, a cog in the machine?


oh damn girl. why not? on the occasion
of a fiftieth year of this planet she felt
every node and nexxus that had come from
the seed of her soul//excuse the gardening metas
excuse the butterflies and moths and chrysali,
excuse the excuses most of all//but
you don't have to excuse soul.
that's the one thing we don't have choice in do we?


or do we?
justin says we don't. neitsche and cioran and baudrillard
says we don't. the river says we don't.
why does she insist on transformation?
the positive flipped on its back
the negative now light. she knows
about hole travel vs electron travel
how the positive is merely a space
moving thru spinning collectives embracing
them for a submicronano, then moving on--
a spin in the close blanket of barn dance
or when he bent
her in reverse, kissed her neck
as she watched the full moon rise.
the orchids they made in the summer twilight.
the spattering patterns of light and dark
found in the disco ball's shadow.


she disliked his greed because it mimicked
hers in its cloth. his priorities were as fucked
as hers were when her children needed nest.
but he was even more a sow than her. he had to buy
into the dream, pay money for it then try to cling
to what is ephemeral. she did not collect,
she was given things to dust. she dusted.
she had to learn to give away.
he had to learn to let go.


on her shelf of tiny things
a tiny box of tarot cards,scored
from his fire. his convictions
she mangled with anachronism and anarchy.
her convictions he pirated, set into different
metalled chains that flowed down the centuries
like a midsummer night's dream. she watched
them glitter around his neck,prayed he wouldn't
hang himself or nag himself into a preternatural
economy. one was lost, another on the verge,
a woman's head slides under the water
for a third time. ripples across a pond
throw striated sunlight on goose
eggs. the embryos stir.
















*()(&




daisies have come up
next to the pizza box
on the side yard. you

can hear the grass complain
feel its thirst as you walk
over its crackling yellow.
a spur clings to your instep
begging to be taken from this place.

you don't understand how
allowing entropy into the system
snowballs. the battle against it
is always futile, that's the promise
of dark matter, but serenity is in
the trying. the trial you told him

he had to make for his own sake.
you're not sure if there's a wave up
and out of here. all signs point to no.

maybe you do take that gun and put it in your mouth
no one would miss you, except your mother.
i would miss you, she says into her kerchief
thinking of her immortality in a casket. you

gone before her. bastard. little ingrate.
why do you hate me so much? this is why god
turned his back on us. you want free will? she asks.
how could it be any other way? i just want you
to be happy.