Unheroic Interlude

 The nine sisters won't play with me

so I'm counting on you, gray-eyed 

and far-seeing, to remember me.

Where I left my heroine, she was

cooling her heels in the Land of the Dead.

She'll live (you knew that) 

because Immortals do.

It's what they were fated to.

And as for me, I guess I'll live, too,

if I can figure out my way.

We are skipping from the Middle East to

the Mediterranean, (I've been--have you?

I've seen the rock and the hard place where my 

epic crimson forbear found himself adrift.)

And here's where you find me.

Crafty one, send an owl. Whisper in my ear.

Get my stupid ass out of here. 

Here I am: not in the dark of the Underworld,

but in the bright light of day, 

chained to a mountain of bullshit,

vultures gnawing at my ever-renewing 

last living fuck.  

The mountain is my own bullshit,

the vultures exist in my mind,

and the chains are those I forged in life,

whatever the Dickens that means. 

And I am not sure how to stop torturing me.

She Maintains

 She hangs by her ankles,

iron hook run in.

She hangs by the bones of her ankles,

feet above head.

The dry heat of the land

where the sun doesn't shine

and the rain doesn't fall

bakes her skull

and her soul is thirsting.

And here she is, bereft:

no cloak of invulnerability,

no shining armor,

no girdle of confidence,

gone are her jewels,

her sword of discerning,

her words of power--

even her skin is gone.

The shadow of her tongue longs

for wine.

The shadow of her tongue yearns

for water.

But she can taste:

blood of a soldier

tears of a lover

sweat of a laborer.

And new skin forms over

 the dry chalk of her form.

She Descends

 Where love was gone

the dry world sighed for what was lost

and the maiden left her couch to see:

Nothing bloomed in the garden

and no tree bore fruit. 

The air had no birdsong and

rain would not fall.

She would find love and return.

What she can't take with her 

will drop onto the path:

the cloak of invulnerability,

her shining armor,

her girdle of confidence,

her many jewels,

her sword of discerning,

the words of power--

gone.

The skin unwound from her flesh,

the fat rendered in the heat,

the nerves exposed and made

into a garland for a holy tree.

Her bones walked into

the land of the dead

to find her love.

how I hold you

 Bello, you call me "beautiful" every day

and ask me did I know:

Did I know you love me?

Did I know I am cute?

Did I know?

Did I know?

Twenty something years roll by

of tenacious love

and constant affection

towards the thing in me

that isn't easy to see. 

Who loves me in my darkness,

who supports me in my rage,

who reminds me he loves me

when I'm out of pocket

and need to turn the page? 

I hold you, though

you are tough-skinned enough

to love me,

so carefully in my hand,

like an irreplaceable rarity

because that is you. 

I treat you as fragile because

nothing

loving me

should be treated any other way. 

And I fear I will hurt

what I love. 

He Prayed for Her, He Said

 He prayed with his fists

to the god of pain

for her to soak up his anger

and soon her clothes were

soaking

and she fell

and her cries stopped

and his anger stopped

and turned to gutless fear.

And then he hid her

and prayed she would never be found.

Those were

his only prayers.

Flesh is Tragic

 I've told you this:

we live to die,

and all the store of humanity

we set our hopes by

is a sucker's bet.

We live in denial

that flesh is tragic

and life a trial.

I saw a woman in flames;

did the passersby?

I saw her because 

the camera doesn't lie. 

They offered her views

and not a coat 

to smother the flames--

like a goat

sacrificed to the God of 

Likes and Clicks

her death gave a 

Junkie Messiah a fix.

The death of one human

preserved at the end

by hit camera, save

then send. 

Solstice

 Kissing the blackened eyes of winter,

we will find the sun for you, our sister

though the road be cold and night so dark.

She lay without her sultry lover, 

snow her whitened shroud and cover,

but on high we know he comes--hark!

His shadow looming in the gloaming,

faithful still and not for roaming, 

the bridegroom sheds his winter pall. 

The stone will move that found him missing

her cold-numbed lips he will be kissing,

and in their reunion rejoicing--all!  

(After the manner of Aurelia St. John.)