I thought of the orchards and how I found home in them through the seasons. When they were skeletons; twisted and gnarled in the snarling cold. When they were pregnant; lush and heavy with life in the waking fertility. When they were listless; the sun beaming its devotion to the sky and the dust was hot. When they were reflecting; their colors turning into flames, burning into themselves.

You told me that people were like that. I said I see it too. We smoked more, the atmosphere clad with pensive tension that youth seems to parade around. Anything could happen. Maybe it did, maybe it would. I knew the best remedy for this tumult was the endlessness of the road. So we did that, we hopped into my little clown car and the day began to nod off into the velvet of its unconsciousness. We were alight and fervid in the promises of an eternal night.

You were beside me and I thought I knew what love was. You were here beside me, I had a way of wanting things that ended up finding me eventually. I considered you in this way. Your fingers were widow like and had a hold on me in a way you weren’t aware of. I would look at them and imagine them on me. Eventually that turned out to be another thing that found me one day. And it was a misfortune in retrospect.

Maybe you’re not meant to hold some things.

We drove through the neon night, finding our way to Eros. We went for shits and gigs. We went cause we were curious kids. The booths in the back had a stale smell of tissue, bleach and body heat. Sitting in one of the booths which were more like a holding tank we were painfully aware of how close we were. We didn’t touch but maybe we could’ve. We played a few loops, making fun of ourselves and the strangeness of sex and bodies.

Maybe you felt differently.

We drove around and there was nothing to do. We sat in the parking lot and smoked more, hidden by the shade of a tree. The higher I got to the sky the more I wanted to live up there. From a Birds Eye view I looked down at us two. And I felt some paradise.

When I look back now, I laugh at myself. But back then in that moment I wouldn’t have figured as much. The future was nowhere near us. We were just two birds of paradise, flying high.

Monday and her green fleshy body, honeydew. The sun spreads its treacly teal rays, speckling the dew clad grass. I told you about mondays and their greenness, their lunar softness, their periwinkle horizon and the opal shift in the skin of it. It’s a winnow of stardust and a somber turn of the eyelid. Contemp…

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The mimosa tree furling when touched, its somatic reflexes carry an open secret of lineage. When the teal pearls of sun drops lay on the ground we are reminded that the illumination is the one side we see bursting forth the dammed up depths of the core.

A caterpillar lives off of photosynthesis and its potion of transformation. In the light there is change, and only in the light can it sing clearly like the birds hidden above. Close to the sun, shrouding us in its shadow and song alone.

The depths are a no trespassing within us, protect your waters to not muddy them. Let them remain yours and let your expression become the blinding rays that carry the message of the depths so exact and precisely it is immovable.

Every grief and strife is an ask for light, for more life. There is nothing new under the big sun, but it’s new to me and you, and that’s the fun.

Lay beneath the shroud and the rays, let them skip on you in shaded play. Reveal your blossoming when it’s the right time, the world needs more of us to beam, to shine.

Looking down at me

Like a fly

Pictured us in a feeling

Looking down at me

Passing time

Fingers in hair

Lips in a snare

Words like honey

Lips like whiskey

Hanging on every word

Sweet and sizzling

No matter how absurd

Pictured you in the seat

Beside me

Tragically again

Sadly

I can only pretend

To talk to you now

Letting the trees

Make shadows of you

The music

Our conversation

Caught up in the pictures

You, living dead

You in the dresser

Or the pillow beneath my head

Fall in the shower

Lay on the tile

Razor cut on my leg

Tiny burning cut

Bleeding a thread

I call up my friend

She doesn't talk to me

The way I want her to

I just wanna hear a voice

So my head

Isn't so full of you

Picture you on the other end

Looking at your floor

Smiling

I'll take what I can get

Try not to think of you

So shady

So Beguiling

Quivering

Bathroom floor

Sad that I can't

Touch you anymore

Hear you taste you

Become you

Why does my heart like to yearn

Why does my mind like to burn

With you

You're my incense

Permeating my internal cathedral

You've become the stained glass

I bathe beneath each shard

You shaved your head, exposing you like the turtle we found in the front yard. Emeraldine and obsidianite. The mornings we dread the day are viridian and pale grey but we hold each other a little closer when the day dies with the lavender whipped light.

Can you tell me your everything’s? I want to know them in a multi dimensional way. I thank God for you when I’m high and driving by myself. I thank him for my eyes and my strife too. They’re all ultramarine blue. Everything lives suspended in the eternal hue.

Then thoughts of Hindu gods are as orange as the sunset, lush and mindful. I think of my time in them, perhaps sometime that was black and streamed in like powdered blue on the dawn. I don’t want to focus too much on things bigger than I, they’re too absinthine, to a mind like mine.

I got lost on the interstate on purpose. I drove in circles to feel like I was getting somewhere important, I felt like mauve and the shock of hot pink. Until I got home and laid my head on the indigo cool pillow beside your warm burgundy body. I love you, I love you eternal blue.

I casted my gaze onto the dancing flame, 10 minutes of staring straight into a rift in the veil. The event horizon of element and atmosphere.

Here it started, the flame danced then as I focused my intention it stood still, paralyzed like a snakes prey. For a moment I was pulled by my ego. Telling me I could control this element, some magical thinking that intruded my periphery.

In that moment, I felt my eyes grow more weary and weaken to the bilious light. Something happened, I felt I was hallucinating, some peaks of sapphire blue began to peel through behind the flame. It was auric and whispered of something beyond. A language of gaze and knowing. So I gazed on, not moving, letting the blue bleed before me.

Then ineffably the blue began to radiate larger and slowly an emerald ovum of aura began to unfurl beneath the blue.

My eyes hungry and ravishing the light play.

Though… I felt my eyes weaken and begin to cross. I knew I had to maintain them on the flame.

The colors kept shifting, auric, astral, 6th dimensional.

I felt my breath stutter, then, a piercing scarlet made way between the vermillion and the temperate violet. I couldn’t believe my sight

This was surely a vision, something I had no terrestrial thought for. Only once before had I encountered something this phenomenal, this supernatural. Only once, I remembered it, but chose not to.

I let the flame tear deeper into the illusory veil before me. I wanted it to show me, to reveal to me as a mystic does. Perhaps some portrait of God beneath the vision unfolding before my feeble humanity.

No, the flame only showed me a whisper of the secret between the mundane element and the glimmer of the divinity beyond here.

I’ve cried at the edge of an orchid petal, its crystal like fabric. I’ve sobbed at a butterflies wings, and the rings of a tree’s trunk.

But, this unveiled a new emotion, like when my hips were shimmied by Lalita Tripura Sundari after a deep trance-like salt bath. But this occurrence was entirely before me, allowing my eyes to grow weak in a hallucinatory surrender to the ephemeral element and the Secretarium beneath.

Fire since then has lived within my irises, burning in hues of the duality of existence here and the beyond beneath it.

Angel headed and dizzied chasing stars and rapturous unveilings

Bread for feast, bread for the beasts and the allies, the simmering

They swallow the empire of the moon

Spewing whispers and memories of a forgotten secret.

“To find out eternity”

Jazz shimmies out of darkened windows,…

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Mama told me about ants and when she’d lay on the ground. Mama told me they were many and when crushed they had a smell. I didn’t know what she meant but I knew what earth smelt like, I knew what the creosote bush smelt like in the rain. The atmosphere, dusty and the desert surrounding us became a symphony of life and fragrance. Yellow flowers speckled. Between dusky green and the beige corridors of the desert. Alive.

My bare feet hit the ground and I didn’t notice the life beneath them, I did cartwheels and smiled as my hair brushed the earth.

I did cartwheels as my hands crushed small beings beneath them. Unaware of the small pardoning that a life would expect. I’d lift my palms to the sun dusted atmosphere, my eyes finding the small figures pressed against the reddened flesh. Ant bodies, I felt despair as I knew they were so small I wish I knew better. They couldn’t scream or tell me I was a lethal mass. That I was a bomb in the shape of palms.

I remember my tongue salivated involuntarily as my nose found its way to my hands. There it was… the smell. Pheromones, to blare of death to their brethren. A snappy peppery scent, green and spry, a spring and well of life force on my palms. My eyes welled and I hung my head. I tried to grab each little impression carefully, trying to place them in small graves. Tiny fallen soldiers, telling me stories of the this cruel big world.

I sat on the concrete, owing small funerals to each ant, remembering their scent. Snappy peppered green, stinging my nostrils, reminding me of life and death. Reminding me of cruel fallen things and the tenderness of the human heart that curls beneath the coldness of concrete and sunlight.

I’ve had a hard cider in my system for 20 years. I’ve let it seep into everything I do, because it’s best when bliss is perpetual, like this summer. We burn together. Let’s remember how it felt when we were sober, I’m trying when I’m not crying, I’m trying so hard to let life bleed onto me without the buffer of inebriation. But why do I love it so much? I know what my forefathers were onto when I’m drunk. I see it, I get it ¿ Id die for this too. I’d let this wash over me and let it take over my blues. I like it like this. Oozing here, in the grand tides of it all, in the great waves of life. I’m covered in pigments, my eyes are powdered iridescent and I feel like how Woodstock probably felt.

Electric.

His fingers tell some language of another astral plane, I know nothing of it but he’s fluent. So I let it wash over me, bathing me in its rich scarlet as he’s dripping in it. Let it dribble on my tongue like acid, here I am, here I am yes and so it is.

I tell myself over and over so it is, and it is! And so it is. How perfect, to be existent in this ecstasy. I remember when I imagined what it felt like, virgin, I was until 19, I gave my debut to a philosophy major, some pathetic nihilist, because it didn’t really matter anyway.

So it didn’t, but it did, and I pushed him off of me as he half heartedly gave whatever it was he was to me. I hated him, but my false eyelash was falling off, I ran down the felted carpet to his sisters empty room, naked, nude like their carpet. I glued myself back on and walked back like a cat with a rat to his bed again and sprawled out asking him to finish. He had no clue it was my first time. I didn’t care.

I didn’t want to.

So it happened and his salty flesh splattered on mine and I hated that I had his essence on me. But I chose it out of some desperation to get this beast off my back. It happened and as I pulled my shirt on I told him “you just “took” my virginity” he sat there mouth agape.

“Wait.. you’re not gonna get all weird now right?” I stared at him and smiled knowingly how much I despised him.

“I guess you’ll have to wait and see”

I ignored him for the rest of the semester and the entire summer as he texted me obsessively and then 5 years later he saw my engagement ring on my finger as I walked into the smoke shop he worked at, typical. He was stunned, prior to that any poetry I wrote or essays I shared, of course, he had so much to add or say and all of it sucked and his metaphors were laughable, pathetic actually.

Something about a beach ball and a puffed up ego, so obvious. Scoffable. I became everything I wanted and ended up hating it. So I pulled away, like I do so well. Hiding inside myself.

He’s somewhere being nihilistic and maybe if I’m right and the pipeline aligns, he could love Jesus too. Nothing wrong with it, just something about his personal philosophies giving me a clue.

Now here I am, a marriage and divorce later, being triangulated and taken for granted and manipulated enough to know better. And oh, I know better now. A woman takes what she can when she can. And a smart one knows how, without giving away a single thing. So thats how it goes, and that’s how it is. I was who I was and did what I did.

His voice is downstairs and I am reminded of its spell binding. How I enchanted myself for him, for myself. To hold his gaze ransom for his touch. He’s in my hands now and he doesn’t want to slip. I tell him I love him and love him, even when the grey storm clouds fill my echoing heart chambers. Streaming into my blood, these echos. Like the rain on my head, and the flooding in my shoe soles. I am in the grey matter, I feel the grey of matter and this terrestrial cloak of life. I touch my skin in the shower, I’m submerged in the inside rain. I imagine I am a cockatiel in the rainforest. The thunder outside reminds me that this is another creatures reality. I can pretend for a moment that I am something other than myself.

I eat cherry plums in the shower and spit the pits on the ground, to be plucked up later and thrown in the garden. Maybe by some luck they’ll sprout buds of their own and I won’t feel so powerless to cause and effect.

My head is getting heavier, my thoughts seem to remind me of meditations and connections to my ligaments and musculature, maybe that’ll make my being feel lighter. To work with the meat on my bones. To be “embodied”, I am afraid of this part most. When I stretch in front of the big window I’ve had moments of grief. The score my body kept reminding me of the bad play from some other yesterday. I sit in the feeling again, a puddle of rain. I sit in it and remember that it’s okay to feel pain.

There was a moment in time I would bind myself so tightly beneath the sheets. My legs were crossed when I was born, serpentine. Gandanta knotted to a cord of some yesterlife I have no recollection of. I would coil up to tell myself I didn’t need to cry, I was just restless.

My father grieves the days as they pass, his recollections of years past and the prophetic unfolding he knows of, riding up like a Calvary over the earth. I remember his heart breaking almost everyday. His tears were like sea foam and cleansed me telling me it was okay to crack. I would often look for small ways to break when it was permissible, some divine allowance to the primal ache of existence. It would only be when others broke in, I would see the light spill into them and they shone with each glimmering tear or wail. I felt the goldenrod and silver mingle into my psyche, into my periphery. This would call forth the dammed up grief to spill into my own hands. It was a catharsis to cry when others did. When I was alone it felt like a betrayal to myself to cry in the dark, though I did it often.

My mother’s tears are turquoise and silver, she is a silver fish in an ancient lake. Her scintillation is that of the caverns I knew to love in the mystique of my homeland. The kind of sparkle that can only happen in darkness. When light trickles in and illuminates the stalagmites and stalactites, deep cerulean and viridian pools one would never know of unless some light or echo called one into the depths of earths womb. To reveal that in darkness was her testament to gilded beauty. I think of how darkness and light copulate, they’re not enemies in this life like we think. They hold each others secrets, they reveal them too. When the shadows cast onto my skin in the summer beneath the feathering leaves of the mesquite tree. I knew I was alive between their castings. I was becoming the pattern they projected. How beautiful to be held between both their fingers. I’d watch the light and shadows slowly meld into a dusky grey as the sun lay his head on the horizon. The moon either hiding in her powder room or revealing herself in the grand room of the velvet sky.

She would follow me as the car drove and roved over the desert landscapes, promising me a tomorrow that I could feel it all again, and I’d cry at her in the backseat, hidden behind the heads of my father and mother. Listening and listening, allowing myself to break, her silver light pouring into me.

(Artist is unknown)

And wild

And beautiful

And free

All of me is everything

Everything is inside of me

I’m like the sky

Too free

Too high to care

Or see

What you might see

So maybe I’m ugly to you

And that’s alright too

But it doesn’t matter to me

To tell myself who I am

Something to tell me about myself

The reflection of myself is a blur

Blurred outlines of someone I built

But never inhabited

Until I wiped away the fog

And saw a faceless thing

“I am”

I see her and she is, and I don’t know her

Who is she?

Who am I?

In a void of faceless bodies

I am another number

Like the rest of them

I’ve taken features from here and her and him

Pasting them onto myself

To make sense of myself

I’m scared to admit it out loud

Here I am

Another one of them

Another number

Another faceless number

Cattle call

None of them come

I want to be free range

Unyoked to metrics

Wires chaining me

Algorithm’s draining me

Telling me who I’m supposed to be

The perfect victim

Unsure, whats real anymore

I look back at my reflection

She’s asking me who I am

I don’t know anything else to say

But my tongue says it

Without me

And I so I say it

“I am”

His heavy hands and dreary eyes trace me in an empty room, through heated pulse points. He sees me this way, I saw him as a holy confession. Something of throwing my hands up to the sky with divinity on my lips. I told him this much. His hands and tongue speak incantations in my violet mind. Angel headed he is my communion, my retribution. He knows me as a priestess of sorts, musked by the moons powder. Clad in silver and velvet footed. I throw my head back as his teeth find my pulse.

He tells me he smelt me across this desert, he tells me I was palo santo smoke. An apparition beneath glimmering stars in the dark room of the night. I held him over, til he rebuked my holy surrender. He told me he tracked me like blood in the sand and he smelt my heat, he didn’t want me to land before him as a white dove. I became a wild horse instead so he could follow me where I was already off to… not to him but to the velvet void above.

The pool is tidal from your legs

Your words lofty in space

Telling me all the worlds

In your child mind

Our cheeks raw

From the mid day star

into lavender cream

Honey dew smiles

On the table

A hammock swing dream

You and your brother

Over all the time

Nursing fallen baby birds

And running around on

Stick horses

I kissed your brother

By the magical mulberry tree

We giggled and played

It was magic

It was tender

It was all we did all day

Then slowly

Our hair would become

More important

Than the pool

The boys we liked

Were more interesting

We learned how

To play cool

From swimming and

Swinging

To Flirting and

Preening

Ourselves

Like fallen baby birds

And running around

With boys

And Wearing skirts

Then all at once

The swing set turned grey

The mulberry tree

Simply turned into shade

Our little worlds

Were on a screen

And slowly I learned how

To kill childhood dreams

When the Saturnian hand slaps the ground and says ‘listen’ and the ceiling is lifted, Like bugs under a turned stone, We are left with the tunnels—the corridors.

This is a reflection of walking through the dark passages until they cease to be mere arches and doorways and become the sky. This is not my story; it is the story of the 'I' that remains when there is no one left to hear the call. It is the color of a pale morning that never ends.

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One of the key parts of any form of spiritual practice or occultic knowledge is discernment. Contemplating the rise in spiritualism and many who claim to be expert but are actually novice and limited in their information and practices. This is actually quite destructive to ones spiritual growth and path especially those who claim to be gurus or “knowing” when most is based off of others information in this fast paced day and age.

There is a sacredness in occultism and any form of spiritual enlightenment has become quite open and accessible. This is both a good and bad thing, good because people are able to learn more about their journey and the power they contain as well as can learn how to harness their power to become a more enlightened self. Bad because the amount of false gurus who are ego based in their teachings and not truly immersed in the experiential knowledge of occultism but only through written word can cause great harm to those who are open to their teachings.

Having true gnosis is that of accumulating an abundance of experiential and applicable wisdom more so than hearing or reading and regurgitating this knowledge. This can be quite damaging as you can become consumed with words and “facts” and not actually using this knowledge through real practice. Which is rampant in today’s modern age of fast information and ego based teachings. Spirituality and true enlightenment are not of praising or using the power for ones own ego or self elevation. This is the polar opposite of true occultic wisdom and is actually harmful to ones path considering it’s an illusion of light and not the true light of knowledge itself. The light only comes truly when one is submerged in the darkness and lack of his own light. Ego is the detractor and destroyer of ones ability to attain true knowledge and acts as a blanket or veil, covering the individual and blinding themself with what they believe is “truth” and usually this truth is what feeds his ego and crowns him as “master”. He feeds his ego with words and believes he is all knowing. But words themselves are illusions that can cause one to believe anything if he is not truly knowing. Much like fairy tales you can become encompassed with believing you are a princess or witch because you simply identify or understand the character. But this is only speaking to an archetype that lives within everyone. We must remember that in order to find truth in teaching it must be tested over and over again and set on fire and dragged through mud and come out whole and unscathed even after. The only way to test teaching is to apply it and truly practice it. And even then one is not considered a guru or teacher. You can be considered an adept or a practicioner. But only when one has been tested over and over not only by life experience but by their own guru. Can one even consider themself as a teacher, even then he must be initiated.

Do not fall for false prophets who only read one article or post and never put into experience or test their teaching. They can lead you to feed your own light and become greatly ignorant to true enlightenment.