“Do I dare disturb the universe?”

We have an obligation to disturb, and surrender ourselves to the world.
Just because we have to go on this ride doesn’t mean we have to go quietly and without color.

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Magic

They drew themselves into gentle arcs of wind, then over the stone wall. They slid across the lea, and fell towards a great pine tree.  A red-throated woodpecker knocked on the ingress, rocking caterpillars and termites from splintered foot-holds.  Pine-beetle rumors drifted through the zephyr, and addressed them from the hillside.  Rabbit ear clouds leapt slowly from canopy to crest.

We found and plucked them

From a place near the bare moss

We ate every one

 Poem to Pythia; Beyond the Veil

Beneath the precipice, and below the affecting spires that hold fortune captive,

I drench my bells and silks and tattered scrolls in briny fumes.

Their steady whispers enter and dwell inside the corners of my ears,

and sidle their way into the fissures along my frontal lobe.

The pious smoke held your eyes to mine, a crystalline divide between the Earth and Apollo’s skies

that reach—up—up—up— beyond the veil.

Among stone slates, and betwixt cobalt steels and gilded tribute,

I catch stars in minor cracks that slink along walls of this room.

They show me blights and hollowed scores within this cave of disquieted spears,

and knead their way into the legends I’m fated to unfold.

A crevice dives with plunging curves, granting visions of roving springs and long-enduring deeps

that drift—down—down—down—beyond the veil.

They appear gently, and stoop as buckled shields upon the rungs and walks,

I grasp their laurel and gaze into holy founts portending doom.

Your goat shivers and hums upon the marble altar, a ghastly mask of fear,

and bleats out loud when by silver blade his neck-skin onward lolls.

Man’s questions issue from aching mouths, hoping Apollo favors thoughts both meek and profound

that sound—up—down—up—beyond the veil.

Druid

A simple hymn echoes through the sanctuary. Neck-hairs rise with joy underneath sand-colored collars. The cleric’s story tucks itself into now-empty pockets in burlap pants. A baby coin for a traveler’s fortune; an arid city salvaged at a higher price. The elect youth rises to the left, and lifts his sandals one by one up stilted stairs. He brings long sprigs of great Oak, and waxen leaves of Mistletoe. Wooden beams stand arranged, piled with hay; he steps through the doorway, man becoming one within the shape of man. “The Gods will favor your city,” barks the Druid. A spark brings forth new flames and promises bright fortune. “Rains will be heavy this year!” call out elated farmers’ sons.

The Young Wicker Man

Has a Heart Filled with Honor:

He Dare Not Call Out.

2013