The Grimoire of Solomon

I could see through it all if not for the pines
especially the dead one
the one I've'd named Salem
re: the Witches or, specifically
the nature of their power1
how it is both earthen and electric
how it smells of wet car parts

There is nothing casual about Dhalgren
but still I read it from this window
like it is sprinkled with bacon bits
like I am waiting at the bus stop
holding a blue Ikea bag filled
with tiny corpuscles of midnight

In this, the:
Spectral Appearance of Dimensionality Emerging from Fields of Binary Information

despite:
the irrevocable damage to my brain
each time the phone says unknown caller
as if that is an acceptable term

As if this is any way to live. As if falling planes are not both Stregheria and Omen. As if magick could not find its way into metal.

The Grimoire of Solomon.
The majesty of soft breath
or, specifically, its imprint.
Somehow its own Lemegeton.
A way to connect points of
time utterly apart. Let them
touch (a breath meaning
both "no" and "yes")

But,
I seem to care more about:
the bacchanal of autumn sweater college frolicking
    than:
the etymology of Luciferin (as in bioluminescence)

Dream more about:

a garden hose, alive, forming endless ∞'s

                                                  ↓
      

becoming

                                                  ↓
      

Pazuzu's severed dick serpent in dark water with morphine for poison

                                                  ↓
      

becoming

                                                  ↓
      

the part of kombucha Dactyls called "Great Mother"

Spend more time watching Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater playthru's* while
making a Cocteau Twins playlist called "Solitaire" that is somehow vanquished
upon completion.

Moments wasted like bra phlegm. The cards cascade against the green of a Green Screen.

And, in Salem now,
I see:
a cardinal,

then two
mating, like white birds

(in an incendium field)

covered in dried blood.

"Climbing the ladder, the thrum of distant power generation, the lonely voice, growing in intensity,
an aural locus of desire divested of its given context. A moment real and true in its mirrored reflection,
a face looking back, through the liquid color, hand outstretched. First contact. I kiss the screen."