Calliope 1
She starts, there is nothing to scare her.
The sky brightens
on her arm, purple welts
pulsing fade.
Notes, words ordered with song
all on one line
she sings
lilting lyrical instrument of soul and sass.
Inverted,
the mindscape,
to a blackened soul
She sings the tune of Hades revisited,
for the sake of his twisted believings
fast growing heartbeat
the appearing, the not loved.
Vancouver
Hardly Sin City,
these walls none but I did love.
Raindrops in the night.
the wedding of Hierophant and High Priestess: what a strange affair
sometimes I forget I even have tattoos
which seems a sacrilege.
I have always intended them to be
a remembrance
a history
a metaphysical map of myself
meant to be pored over and studied
each day
in my continual journey
to find my core.
perhaps they wish to be forgot —
casting me afloat once again
in the seas of Mystery
making me struggle:
I grasp at the flotsam of the Truth
of Tradition;
find nothing but empty foam.
from my last attempt at enlightenment
I flounder in these turbulent waters
cannot seem to keep myself afloat
for all the strength of my heart and limbs
they refuse my last wishes.
and finally I succumb;
dive deep
grab something slippery
yet more solid than our Sargasso history:
the jetsam of my forebears’
spiritual shipwreck,
rightfully floccinaucinihilipilificated
by my generation,
lost on their own ten-year journey home.
seeing light reflected off a silver scale
I learn to come home
again
to where the ink on my skin
resides
spelling out the truth I’ve newly understood, clarifying
and confusing
it:
black as innocence
blue as experience
red as the blood
I spend in payment
each month.
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