How far I have fallen

so sick of this wonder and terror

and longing for my brothers’ skills

at feeling nothing at all.

Searching for an off switch

but the days of spiritual robotics are long gone.

we’re wading in a pool of human emotion.

Its wild and terrible,

and so very real,

and burns brighter than the stars.

Astride the Tree

In our revelry

the great gods joined us,

Drank with us,

Laughed and cried with us.

In the hall and around the fire

our ancestors met,

in a circle filled with more than our bodies.

In a timeless and spaceless vacuum,

In ginnungagap we gathered

as its primordial realm overlapped Midgard.

Old friends and far travelers shared stories

and forged community

in the name of frith and goodwill,

And strangers parted as friends,

already thinking on the next chance

to become something greater than self,

Drawing mannaz

and thinking about the bonds of human love.

Recent publication

My work was recently accepted into another anthology.

Potnia: A Devotional Anthology in Honor of Demeter. edited by Rebecca Buchannan and Melitta Benu. Biblioteca Alexandrina. June 2014.

Memories and Revelries

Ages I have forgotten

like monoliths of glass turned to sand

not knowing if I can ever have simplicity

shining into my eyes

as golden as the morning sun.

I have raised soldiers and kings.

Raised them from the dust

into the starry heights

and watched them remake the heavens.


I have loved such men

and turned the mirror on their souls

to show them their worth.

For a good man is worth his weight

in virtue and grace.


I have dressed in satin

flowing with garlands of red and white.

Guiding the fates of man

for a cause no less than divine.


I have dressed in rags,

tattered and dissolute

to find the lost souls

who have fallen far from the heights

of the celestial palaces

where they were grown

to say goodbye and to bring some home.

A Letter to Our Sons

The deepest sadness washes over me.

My heart aches to witness your struggles,

but they will make you who you are.

And baby boy, you always learn things the hard way,

but you’re reaching the cusp of Orion,

and on the edge of manhood.

People will do for years,

what your closest kin are doing now.

They will buy other people’s lies.

They will believe and submit themselves,

and give up everything they are,

For the comforts of socialized slavery.

We are fighting a revolution,

every one of us, who decides

we will not be forced into coercion.

You will be called hateful things for your beliefs.

There will be no end to the vitriol,

So be strong,

Mon fils d’esprit,

and choose your battles wisely.

Your true mothers and fathers are always with you.

By the Arrows of Eros

I walk beneath the moon

and know that she shines for me

I contemplate the softness in your eyes

in every moment we walk closer and stand nearer,

I feel as if there is only you and I.


And never had I dreamed any of this

or imagined I could know your heart

as well as I do, in such a short time.


Yet this I know,

I want someone so beautiful to me,

that my heart aches at the thought

of ever parting from you.

Portrait of a Princess (in memory of the late LaVonda R Staples)

In days gone by I loved a woman
whose power was her voice
and whose vision she forged
from the pages of history
and healthy doses of street life.
She could tell you things about historic Saint Louis
that museums and tour guides don’t know.
Things about the old families that built the city,
whose bones built the foundations,
and whose money financed it.
Tackling any establishment was essential
and fundamentally her scepter to behold,
Her criticisms she turned on every pair of eyes,
across the Midwest,
up the eastern seaboard,
and across international waters,
Long was the journey of her torch
There was no place her light did not touch.

In days gone by we laughed and cried,
And we held mighty discourse on childhood and motherhood,
Children and education,
To my babushka she fondly granted the epithet, boyfriend,
On account of his beautiful features.
We talked of soap and cigarettes,
Where we had come from, and who we were on the inside,
Drug addiction and art,
History and psychology,
Depression and scholarship,
Domesday and legacies,
Religion and spirituality.

She told everyone she knew about her “witch friend”,
Some crazy lady who put out food for the spirits,
But she knew all too well about spirits and the gods,
When she wasn’t trying to avoid the mercy seat;
And the lwas sometimes called from that devil house
where she did time
toiling away for a lover who didn’t value her enough.
She had seen the underbelly of academia,
She was very good at walking into the underworld,
Though she would forget to come up for air.

In days gone by we made plans for the future,
We spoke of Kent and Saint-Paul de Vence,
Her dream of walking through fields of wildflowers
on an approach to James Baldwin’s estate,
making connections with people who made a difference,
who were at the crossroads of their own human revolutions,
somehow failing to realize she was at the crux
of a very large epicenter, herself,
she would make the waves
and I watched as those waves connected people
bringing her ideas to distant shores
and inciting exchanges that could not be reversed.
This reaching out to change the world
Through the parlance of the scholar’s path,
This was her great work.

In days gone by I watched her die,
And in her dying she recorded her life,
Scrutinized and analyzed death in objective fashion,
Invoking the air into her perceptions,
Without true regard for the emotional concept,
Until there was a shoulder of stone to cry upon.
How did Nostradamus die?
Books will tell us naught,
But he pulled it from his astrological chart,
And as sure as he knew his death, we knew hers.
Something she had once seen in my portfolio,
Something uniquely alien
And based on early twentieth century scifi-horror, she saw
as the new post-modern,
And decided she had to have it.

So I gave it to her one Saturday afternoon,
When other people were raiding supermarkets
Before the insanity of arctic winter storm frenzy,
And she was approaching the gate.
“You look very bright,” she said to me,
Poking my belly,
wondering if the strawberry witch
was working on pregnancy number 7.
“No,” I told her, “just fat.”
A slurring mess from the morphine twisting her tongue,
Clinging to me in the throes of agony,
Screaming out of a pain I could not stop.
With time and energy enough,
To decide to bequeath to me
The plastic blue jewelry set,
Maybe she thought it would make me look like royalty,
Or the way she longed to be motherly to me.
I had my fill of that from my own mother,
And those days have passed me by.
She yanked me by my hair,
Brushing a camphor lotion through.
What could I have possibly done to her in a past life,
To warrant this kind of treatment,
It was a question I was afraid to ask,
But she was a dying woman,
She could use me as a rag doll for five minutes.
She wrapped a scarf around my neck,
And sent me off.

I said goodbye, as I left her with the canvas.
How does a scholar die?
A shrine to the right of the deathbed,
Made up of jewelry and religion from her youth,
A collection of medicine bottles and a pack of smokes.
A growing procession of spirits as the gateway expands.


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