I was born three days before the darkest day and three hours before the brightest night. The winter solstice and the full moon. Dying and searching for the light inside of death is the theme of a solid winter knowing, the spring cannot arrive until the flowers are fed from your hand. And so I said goodbye but didn’t really mean it, thumb prints and little happy faces at the end of the line. Nobody ever turns around to face the other way, their origin, the winter stone. For the sake of my ow path I prefer the cold stone over the sunny meadow. I know I don’t have far left to go when I see the rock shaking beneath my foot. I could say why this hurts or how the stone might crack, the foot could fall off even- but instead I watch the northern lights from my perch, the bull horn of the moon came the other night and offered me a place to sit, could I call this home? Why not. But foreign to me is absolute darkness, I’m used to the light of the moon being full, full bodied and fertile and ironically ready to die. That’s me. Maybe it’s not ironic, maybe it’s cataclysmic- and you just can’t handle a woman like me. Haha. I’m not, however a woman, I’m a bird inside a human tent, masking my beak with a nose and my wings with drying flesh. It’s better this way and easier to remember the tops of places I once built nests and called the mountains home. Deep inside of caves freezing but not frozen, heart throbbing the sound of endless surrender to the darkness only relieved by a small hole in the ceiling. I have nowhere else to go but deeper into the cell, the knocking symbol of leafless trees that shine beneath silver light and blue hands with fingers disguised as claws. You think you knew me when I wasn’t a bird? I said winged serpent remember? That’s what this means, that’s the protocol, the direction to slither upon a bed of feathers we dropped or squeezed out of- going down beneath the shadeless tree sucking roots as thick as rivers, going up as high as mountain peaks forming visions as vast as shimmering stupas- leaning on cliffs wearing halos, making promises to the wind. Prayers never disappear and I prayed for a lot, I prayed through countless millennia that the doom never leave me until I leave both my roots and my halos behind. Where I’ve walked doesn’t matter, the kiss of death on cold lips means nothing, the kindle in soulful eyes as I know you’ll never see me again, the sound of your last goodbye. I must have left something behind to remember me by, a word, a description of summer. I know you’ll remember the dark night of hawks if only you remember the owl who keeps crying. The night of dark hawks, who hunt like it’s the remedy, remember me now while you’re starving and keen. Hungry but strong and it means nothing to the serpent who waits to devour the light. The owl cries to convince you of sorrow, of the devastation of the emptiness, pride lost to spooks. The colors beneath skin are covered in red, you wouldn’t see anything until you rinsed off the blood and yet you still eat so that someone else can’t. This is a winter wonderland with only a hint of blossoms and berries. I see the light in hinges and squeaking doors. I see the light in the end of good times…
and so what you think you want isn’t what this is. The full moon pulls the waves and buries the safety of shore, the winter solstice is the domination of darkness you might think to call death. The full moon makes everything glow and be seen, the domination of darkness is the surrendering of the light to the one she always loved that nobody could see but her. Why he takes her down below, why she becomes the queen, why the moon goes underground, why the mother mourns her, why the blue skies turn to powder, why the trees grow old and die, why my skin is pale against you, why the hawk is always watching, why the owl cries, who took her away, the widow who ate her own children…when the moon is full all the darkness is seen, when death reigns supreme she has given her heart. The other side of me is just over there, buried under a stone named “you know who.” Under the stone I hid relics of me far away from the sight that sees not. What could I have said after all of these years that had to be written instead of spoken in words? What whispers, what secrets haunt me, filled with echoes of blue humming light…she’s always waiting to return to the sea. Anomaly, horns bobbing on the water mirror. How will you get him to love you, how will you get her to rewind the old song? The scheme of the hourglass is that there is no up and down, only the sculptor who carves stone from the glass. Grains of glass, fragments of memory, little pieces of your voice, the words don’t coincide with the message, “get down on your knees,” or what I thought was, “float over to me,” but the words only said, “here lay me, a life never lived, buried in earth, no longer breathing, to be continued…”
and this is the reason I writhe and I smolder, it’s due to the omens that follow me like starving children, children with fangs and watery blue eyes, I see only wrists, twisting and sliced reaching for my arm, pulling at my leg, “open your wings lady, go find us some food…”
trails of whimpers and dark drops of blood, omens fall like rain from the sky, omens are different than signs- they’re something you can’t take away because the owl cries after eating her children. She cries because it was “meant to be” I love you because you’re mine doesn’t get in the way this time. I love you so I eat you is the crime upon her beak. They took me down with him, I left the world above, mother mourned the loss of light even though she’s the one that arranged the marriage. Then I left, falling through cracks everywhere I walked -there was no escaping the bottom of tomorrow. There must be a way to shine from top to bottom, there must be away to avoid today. I found you hunting for me and I just started laughing, a gun in your bed, your body stuffed to the gils, I think they use formaldehyde and cosmetics like face powder and blush to kill the blue tinge, nobody gets out of her hue. And so above hangs the picture of who we could have been had we been stuffed and preserved and buried to be chewed on by worms that no one else will see, only your ghost will watch the sea go shallow, cover the mirror with black ice, then recede worms and all, back up into space without his blessing or even his promise. Well I never left him or got eaten by worms. I grabbed onto the horn and pulled on the bull, the bull is a metaphor but the horn is all real. When the moon is waxing as she was it’s very easy to open your mouth, when the moon is finally full she is no longer hungry. I have three hours and three days to go to consummation, eternal combustion in the ring of fire. The ring is caused by hypnotic swoon of the capture, the fire is caused by the germinated moon ready to be had by the dark. This collapsing of description is really my way of saying whose ripe? Time doesn’t always tell, sometimes time forces. Call it rape, sure we’re never ready for our first trip down to the place called winter, my hades, who knows so much. I said no- and not even my mother cared, sometimes we don’t know what’s best, it’s the culmination of the way things are, the black rapture, my light is ruptured. I held onto pure light and had to be taken into slavery by pure darkness until I grew to love the one who filled me. Filled with me as the essence of sunny meadows who appear as cold stones as if to say, “You know where this headed right?” How many dates can you go on, how long can you flirt with the reaper? So that’s why I’m here, you could call it a honeymoon of sorts, me as above so below, everyone goes down and comes up white when they’re doing it right. Swallow rinse repeat.
No pretty picture only the savage called enlightenment with a club in his hand beating my head, “shut up woman and shine!”
I love aggressive men and dark tunnels, who knows where this is headed as long as it’s not a neighborhood or a cradle. A rodeo would be ok, a rodeo where I ride the bull and never fall from the sky again. When the moon is full the secrets are heard and the babies are everywhere as white owls scour the skies, fate perhaps or maybe just a clue to our origin. Why did she have to go here again? First cannibals and now baby eaters with white wings? I go where the food is, that’s what I do, flesh fried like a pancake becomes me. I don’t even have to wait for him anymore I just listen for the silence just before the scream. You sometimes think I’m friendly, but you’re wrong, I’m a trap for the hunter who owns me. I left myself for you to find in pieces scattered by the earth bound sharks. Words that pull the water up over you and drown you like a shell that has no occupant, what is the sound of water when the sky is dark and the moon is only scraping for her dominion? I say, he’s the one. The one that always knew me no matter what I did and found me wherever I was. Ripe heavenly bride. Fruit on the tree. Love dripping from the roots we lie entangled in as the reason for it all. You can never leave me, I am everything that holds you. He only comes to sustain the winds that demand a sacrifice. Take her somewhere else until she learns that everything and everybody eats each other. Mothers eat their babies, God eats his mother and I eat death who then sucks out my heart and burns the rest to little sighs…stillness is on the emerald horizon in a world washed in threes- while the fours and fives destroy our birthday. The dimension where the secrets are kept isn’t here where hawks still search for movement, it’s in the place where the magnet shifts you and sifts you and he decides you’re fertile enough. She is not just a moon she is a radar and nobody really knows why she goes black. But I do. I know why she goes black and becomes invisible pulling on beams of stored light, she is a prism of gestation and a refuge for night. Don’t ever doubt me unless you want trouble, walk with me, talk with me, take my hand and rise…underwater gold fish living in a bowl you don’t even know there’s a sky, you’re lost in tepid water swimming in circles and when you die, he won’t even notice you, no crown, no cymbals clashing, no food for the birds only a toilet flushing with a swirl of orange. Is that how you want it? All the bright make up and tight little bowls? The full moon is huge. I was born three hours before the full moon on tuesday which is the day of mars, it means I love war. I was born three days before the darkest day which means I’m headed for the stars. I came to fight and discover love in the weapon I use best of all, me.
You should be careful a storm is coming, everything will fall including the moon, knees that bleed on a wasted body, who cares anyway, we’ve all got to go. It’s hysterical how you’ve all made a home here in the waiting station. So funny and perfectly hawkish. If you’re hungry find god and stop looking for signs like rainbows and poisonous apples. Reach instead for me, the omen that goes nowhere but beneath you pulling roots like the tooth fairy who never brought a dime. No, she only took the thing you chewed with- so you could grow a bigger fang? These things mock you- fangs and fists, knives and guns and even bombs that bark- we are little bubbles popping or little seeds hatching- sperm that dies on an empty shore, a womb that’s bleak, hawkish even…
harvesting ancient fields that lie beneath a darkened sky, pregnant with moons upon crafts larger than sight. The womb has been opened
and that’s where we’re at. Three days and three hours until nothing is left but blank slates with grooves and imprints. My right thigh is wounded, with a long scar from a nail that tore down my leg when I fell down the stairs at my grandma’s house. I remember everything, what lives in the wound, how you smell, the voices inside the walls. I was wounded to remember I came with a body and bodies get hurt when they fall. I was wounded to remember that hurts never die they only go deeper looking for God.
Infections, rejections, it’s all the same prophet. The prophet is a bird with rings around her neck. Swallow the hollow for daddy the planet. Not earth shall I say, but a place besides us where humans must go to reclaim their lost souls. The birdless sky, the river that spins, he takes us across to get loaded with fever. Collapse on the ice, go ahead while there’s still time and end up with a slab of cement and a plastic flower. He’s cold down there on the river euphrates. Seeds of records written in blood, thoughts that have no master. Who do you really love? I came to earth to search for the one who could turn me into the forbidden truth called a vacuum- for lack of a better word- and we can’t name names lest we define the taboo. Taboo is why no one gets it, too afraid, too drunk, too threatened by the guards. This dog has more than one head by the way and he doesn’t wear a leash but a ball and chain around his neck. They say the truth is unbearable and when you see him you will die forever. It’s true. Phurbas and a walking stick made me look real but I’m as dead as the door nail that slices legs and forgets the rest. I never got stitches, the wound was too tight. Get it yet, that although the day and hour no one knows and yet the angle must be perfect. The moon must agree and the solstice lord must coalesce.
The dark hour of the dark moon is usually when you make mistakes thinking she loves you and such. It’s a war zone filled with edgeless hunters and creatures that swim on the land. The sea could be the surface to another world did you ever think about how you might breathe the water and consume a bubble or two yourself? I’ve been looking for some peace, a place to go without mirrors or at least with mirrors who are wise. America is the most boring hell I’ve ever been to- predictable, been there done that, don’t even bother getting out of bed.
The girl in front of me has on a shirt that says, “It isn’t where you come from, it’s where you’re going that counts.”
See what I mean? Boring, stupid, meaningless garble- is there a difference between where you’ve been and where you’re going, really, like from one side of the parking lot to the other? Asphalt, pavement, screens, squeeky voices, plastered on gimicky smiles….I know where this is headed of course…why did I return, to pull the ends together, why am I leaving, to retrace my steps. Did you know that people clip the wings of birds and make them their pets? So they can’t fly but sit around eating sunflower seeds and crying inside of their cage while the lady pokes at them and talks in baby talk, bird shit all over the bottom of the cage hidden by newspaper and nobody cares…
The omen is vivid. The signs and symbols reveal the clause. You’re not getting out without some kind of fight. The battle for what and for who? I left myself here long ago but I came back and found her and mutilated her captor. I was born on top of him. I gave him my light. He filled me with the promise of death and I knew my time was up and so I made a deal,
half you, half me, ok? He smiled for the first time and spilled everything into me. And I’m not sure who I found in his forbidden eyes,
a bullet shot by me perhaps too fast to know he killed me?