Vulture Speak
Not enough anymore to wait for perfect timing, the outcome presses in the mirror, crow’s feet, tired eyes, and we must get back on route, but doubt sticks to the background, circling like those desert raptors outside. What else is vulture trying to convey? He’s been present along our travels for a few years now; a common species, ancient and wise. Something to do with carcasses left on the road, from a way of living in previous paradigms of progress, success, and pleasure. Carcasses of places and games taken too far, for too long. I see people decay as they live, their bodies dragged by consumerism, instant gratification. I see excess, people mesmerized back to the animalistic, driven by blunted senses, from so many additives and experience enhancers. Vultures hover, circling, like they’re waiting for a known outcome, but I do not know how to wait without looping into my own: craving total freedom from a system already in place. I see players seeking advantage, suited up in opportunism; slaves to the next best thing rush by, going nowhere new. Remnants of glories past seem so silly, now that less has proven to be so much more. I wish for our safe passage, an opening that´ll get us to our true land, of red earth, clay, and master weavers; heat and underground cool, protection enriched by soul. Visionaries of new days, foundational, mystical songs, and stone temples carved by the wind. Spirit of vulture, teach us now how to ride the thermals and soar.
Summon
Black angel came to do his bidding, to a soul he didn’t know, a kind he’d never tried. He took the gamble, with not a thing to lose in the vacuum of his chest: the poor creature had shut off the light and summoned amnesia. An alien of this planet, he pretended to understand, unsure of what to do, so I shone a light for him to make it all believable, until I had to point elsewhere. He spasmed, shook, unable to stand alone in his peculiar nature. He began compulsive calculations, came up with all sorts of numbers, descriptions, and reasons; could not comprehend his part in our world, as he came from one where mirrors didn’t exist. He’d ever seen himself in other eyes, in love’s open countenance. He pleaded for others to urge the shadows away, but no one’s help would do. I explained to him that my flashlight points to what can reflect even more, for all our sakes, but he cannot grasp that. He’ll have to live the inversion he summoned, where vacuum consumes all light. Now, I let him wander the void and maybe choose to remember… or not. I let him search for the faintest echo in the dead of silence, let him understand there is one path back to grace. A wide path, but one only, where you summon the light in.
Sleepwalkers
They’ve been noticed, now defined outside this room, the same he took the liberty of stripping of anything that didn’t make sense. He points to the sleepwalkers, dead energy that keeps running a program, and I wonder if they have an inkling, the here I go again voice in the back of their head. ¿Or do they live the scene fully, each and every time? It was the smugness in their eyes when they told the story; overcast sky iris, dark circles under eye, waning crescents. Not to fear, the door is closed, shut secure -he assures. Yet they walk on my property. I didn´t mind so much before, but now it´s beginning to be unacceptable, almost unbearable, since Pluto whispers ever so intimately. He shows me forms of energy in reverse: cold electricity, when life discards fragments, cells, and membranes it won’t need to continue. He shows me the mysteries of charisma in reverse: a facade on the dark side of the Sun; a masking of light from darkened characters, gripped by misfortune, while an audience delights, basking in the cool charm of a sleepwalker who pretends to be fully awake and vigorous. I must ask now, ¿is our greatest virtue as humans the mastery of enactment, the art of delivering lines? -I utter And he says yes, we are grand at it, so much, we forgot we made it all up to cover the fact. What fact? The fact of humiliation. And if they do wake for moments, when the gifts of random inspiration penetrate the shell by surprise, those jupitarian rays of elation, the venusian comforts of beauty, I can see the basic child left behind, until the tissue closes off again and is back to the program, back to circling the yard, telling the story, repeating their lines. And then he says it, -time for complete removal.
Chatter on the Moon
Short form prose; Moon conjunct Mercury; getting lost in a sea of information; losing oneself to the noise of the world or the inner chatter; as above so below.
Fringe
Creative short prose, women in the family, being unusual, living in two worlds, dealing with society.
Stripping Down
Writing prose, the new role of a middle aged woman, going back to simplicity, realness, back to herself.
Vulture
Vulture as a totem, a powerful sign, reminder of an alternative view of the world today, a way of releasing, of finding peace; the art of personal power and detachment.
Slither
Year of the wooden snake, preparation, clearing up the old, finishing up, witnessing change, what has is not yet manifest, still not formed.
Prayer to go
Help my impulse, let only the purest emerge, don’t allow me to think, enough pondering has been done here. Rush me toward my truest reality, that sudden drive to your designed road, that which is my true node, the vector of my mission. Whisper it to me in sleep, the ending words ever so loud, definite phrases to broaden my glance, to see the path set forth, and faith awaiting those first steps. Appease this mind and its lunar phases, its flippant nature, steady me into the ground indicated, all its grain. Allow me to merge with the observant mountains, the steadfast trees, the pounding headaches of the city, even its decay. Train my instinct, prop it up with your breath, make it your most faithful servant, even wiser than my thoughts. Gift me the beat of thunder in my footsteps, a sense of safety for the unchartered land. Leave my mind vacant of choice, hold her down under your gaze, contained. Give us the great halt. Tame our horses into the next level of freedom, steady our anxious needs, the aimless roaming, delusion. Make us sturdy again, fit for the job of carrying forth only what is truly yours.
Autumn shades
Short piece, written prose. Autumn season, witnessing father’s diminishing body, slowing down of faculties, acknowledging a life lived, senior slowly shedding his body.