Boldly we go where so many have gone before,
each informed by our unique set and setting.
Some perform alchemy, mixing metaphors
upon a marble altar.
Telling sooth, or constantly mapping the stars,
we spin ourselves ancient fantasies,
reclothed to fit the current fashion.
There are werecreatures, energy vampires,
Lions and Tigers and Bears,
insects infected with rare, lethal archetypes,
angry demons mating with our own cells
to destroy us.
There are lethal conspiracies of demon-men,
bent on self-destruction of their/our whole half-species.
There are warships and projectiles of evil
invading our consciousnesses, destroying our dreams.
There are armies of the night, marching,
conscripting our young, our heartland, our hierophants.
We watch, and scribble notes, often indecipherable.
We chant like banshees, chattering primates,
impressed with our own noise.
Sometimes we forget for a bit, slip out of the script.
We awaken to find ourselves singing;
creating heavenly music.
a view between Heaven and Earth,
Above and Below.
Chilled, burned, abducted by prophecy
Whose prophecy is worthy to invest our hearts, hands, minds?
If our world makes a circle — no end or beginning —
may we slip between a then and now?
Cloistered for warmth in this area between.
I’ve learned its scenery, like lattice worked into my eyes.
Slowly turning toward wise belief, pausing at this door,
portal to awesome wonderment, pure radiant bliss
dispelling knots of pain and betrayal.
Magnetic psyche searing brand,
archetype of mystic revelations carried through
into the world of Man — I come to the promised land,
potent stream of prophecy.
Commanded, I lay down my burden, weight against my back
of gathered assets I was certain to require.
Freed to meet my mission, to accept desire,
immortal pleasure, the opportunity to sketch,
to draw out beauty, to paint leisurely upon prism glass.
Have I reached the bridge upon the crossroads, the glimmering?
Magick’s sea through which I now may travel, native soul
returned, having earned my keep, my long journeyman’s
wage. I have looked at age, a deep reflective pond.
A wild road calls, beyond this threshold, sculpted by
oceanic power, rifts and meteors. I feel self-created destiny
shudder slowly, seismically, move me as I prepare
in a wraithlike pocket
outside of time and space
none to command
none to hinder
how does the spark ignite?
Multiplicities of zeroes
before chicken or egg or seed.
Was there a silent prophecy?
If the system is closed,
nothing created or destroyed,
where does it all come from?
How far can it expand?
If the system is open,
how far does it go?
If there is no system,
chaos endlessly realigning,
helpless to demand rule of law,
form but temporarily
In our space and time
we play at definitions.
“In the Beginning . . ..”
Words upon a screen,
Could Christian Fundamentalism be the dread AntiChrist,
and greedy Wall Street his ravenous Beast?
Could the Second Coming be prides of young
claiming back the streets?
Could Prophecies feared and hoped
to bring Sinners to our knees
to lift the Holy into just reward
by Blessed Hero’s mighty sword
defending, avenging the meek —
Could that parade be before us,
just not the scene we believed,
preached to prove the righteous right?
Has the final fight foretold been taking form,
storm clouds positioned for a hard rain to fall,
untidy time of transition as soothsayers call,
alarm bells chime?
Is the end of this trial of dependence nigh?
Can we break the Jesus code, create out of
Apocalypse our own golden age, reign
(may all your world ends hook up to better worlds beginning)
By sibylline light
images I recognize,
creviced captures of my life.
I know her judgment to be my own.
“Nourished by Moon rivers
mythical cavern blooms
unseen by sunlight
Thus she sets the scene;
becomes the prophecy.
delectable, potent, wise
in the ways of demons,
oracles, gypsy Queens,
ascend into sacred muse-ways.
Every day a new day,
standing ground against a grinding
down to profit’s dust.
It can’t be a secret
if nobody’s listening.
places in your mind
Reject me; reject hard truths,
long trod on diamonds, golden geese brought
Obscured like icebergs, amphibious myths
kept subdued, symbolic
work songs, prophetic exaltation,
we who are only dreams in your philosophy.
There are prophetic dreams.
They haunt or
creep upon conscious walls.
Tell all is not
as simple as it seems.
There are reasons, portents, allies
A dream of water is a prophecy
written into the DNA,
waiting for the day to manifest.
It is a dream about secret dreams,
that which cannot be named.
That which is always present.
Somehow the source is speaking,
perhaps in rhyme and metaphor,
yet speaking still, insistently.
Let it insinuate into all the senses.
Let it speak.
The future descends
from fear-embroidered skies.
A vision of holocaust — when everybody dies.
A new day is dawning, but is it sun or storm?
We have a chance to make our mark,
but is it right or wrong?
The military marches,
the anti-warriors too.
We take our stand in battle,
the many and the few.
Spinning tales of magic, of wizardry and fate;
we want to know just how it ends before it’s all too late.
We sing our song too late.
We right our wrongs too late.
We want to know the date.
To find a better fate.
Can I tell you?
Can I help you to understand?
Can I utter words of prophecy that will make you see?
Standing here before you, I want to take your hand
to swirl up into a magical dancing,
divine worlds of beauty entrancing,
to give you the will and wonder to set you free.
Can you see me?
with necessities of success
lost, adrift in divination
A confluence of ripples
scoops up objects of prophetic reclamation
(seen smaller in the glass-eye of science),
readies to infuse diffuse forces, aquatic expression.
(any body’s guess).
Smooth glide out from chthonic caves, hiding games
into buoyant seas.
Capricious Gaia applauds
release to navigate (no hesitation) past history’s
— forward explore
— captivated, not captured
Fleet (from soul to feet) saltate enraptured.
Sailing fate’s delightfully blithesome path.
Form flows with function
at last, to ride radiant waves
I have wandered, lonely, sometimes abused, sometimes caught up for lifetimes in ecstasy, living others’ lives.
I am gifted, cursed, given that sacred choice, taken with brute force from Heaven to Hell, and less apocryphal places along the mystic trail.
I don’t know art’s definition, the barbed metal and sharded glass that mark those lands.
I rise alone, barely able to stand the glory, the mesmerizing starlight, the sheer backdrop implied in prophecy.
It’s not that I claim to be any more than a bashful ghost caught in this macabre machine.
These precious eternities in preternatural presence I am free.
Prophets may well be attuned to a higher knowledge,
yet they are human upon the Earth
with the understandings and world views
molded by the human ecology in which they live.
Perhaps this is partially why new prophets arise
as our story evolves.
I prophesize by reading wine dregs,
which first necessitates the ritual in which
the wine is drunk by me,
and I am drunk by the wine.