AS IN, SO OUT
to the Goddess of Darkness and Joy
Already inside me, Evolver, native sustenance,
the almost impossible magic is about to begin.
Suppose all the witches who were ever burned at
the stake, warlocks too, decided to come back?
It could be a momentary civic disaster, here,
with maniacal overhead music playing and / or
the melodramatic frothing of a double-cappuccino.
Was that you, last night, on the shyster-net?
Was it you entering identity codes of the psyche
and plucking strings you didn't know you had?
Mother of Wisdom, by my soft-edged dreams.
I share a piece of Celtic crust and a mystical aim.
The mind does not clear itself by removing
metaphors and enigmas, Mother of Wisdom,
or by simply calling an old belief a superstition.
The waters above and below, mirror and make
all things possible, dislodging lodestones
that kill with a sound of seventy-two letters,
teasing the swollen mounds of the ancestors,
burning all in the love of an evening Venus,
one higher and one lower, tormenting the senses.
How many geo-magnetically disturbed days
did Dr. Van Impe say we're going to have?
Does that drive you into a private room?
Is there a ripple of pink before light fades?
In the cave of breath, dark of a dream,
leathern books open, smoldering volumes.
