mahakali

three days now in the midst of kali/throes, spasms,
unearthing the divine, the demonic, all the holy
drudgery in my heart, and seen them all blossoming,
the bloodsoaked petals of my heart, dangling,
time lapsed and still superimposed as i glare into the
mirror, into these teachers' eyes.  nothing can
be smooth these days out, i can only hope to consume
myself before she finds me, and picks my bones
clean. at the end, i am dry crackling white
porcelainesqueness, clattering up the hall,
through the creaking door, shambles rattling across the
living room and clattering down the stairs to rend
myself again, to ready myself again, is it possible that
i am instore for another night?  she couldn't have in
mind more luscious, lascivious, courageous descent,
lower and lower, all of the stairs and ropes in the
world couldn't possibly go this low, so i must ask her
if it is on the bows of her bloodcurdling shriek that i
am to be alofted once again to the land of living
souls, to the real of salvation and sainthood, battered and
bruised though i may be, it is there that i must
be, and will it so.  are you my lover tonight? are
you my reflection? my mirror, my vessel,  i empty all of
these fears and hopes, every drop of lusting and
debauchery into the comfort of your bottomless
pit heart, your infinite echoes, your perpetual
grafting wallows, my time to see the starry eyed
reflection of what we have left at the end of this road, the
mirror of the bottom of the glass and the eyes staring back,
i can hear the glistening ring of the song
already and again, the deepening follows the tracks of the
circles around my eyes, and the bending of the halo
around my head.  everyone on the train shows thier shiny,
shiny chompers, thier demons glare, the filter is
changed and the heaven i had is woven again with the
silent thread of langour, and exhaustion.  i know if i
could will myself to sleep. if i could kill myself to
sleep, i could sell myself to sleep, fall myself to
sleep,tell myself, and fix it all up in a short couple
of hours time i could let go of this shuddring,
stuttering gate, lift my feet off of the bones,
and tickle the slight sun with my listening ears, my
welcoming smile, my open heart.

i must be really fucking tired.

transit strike and the flu

sent reeling again, out of sleep into feverish hallucinations, delusions, Brooklyn is such a sweet jewel, and i know today that i am not going to see her for a long while, until this whole greed machine, out of whack, rights itself, and the balance in the universe is restored. just another hour, please, i have a fever, just one more hour and i know i would be fine. the girl next to me shudders, and wakes, wondering if i am o.k., the bed is soaked, i am glistening as i peel the white t-shirt off, and thump it into the corner. i thought Jameson's whisky was s'posed to get rid of the flu? it did for one night, for long enough for us to play the show, to dazzle the small crowd that shambled in from the surrounding neighborhood, and gather round to ward out the cold and set the fire to stirring in the water that we are when we play. but now my fever is back with a vengeance, and the text message on my phone says that my friends car, destined for Manhattan, is full up, which makes the extra hour impossible, in fact i should have left an hour ago. jerked from the cool comfort of slippery dreams, the girl, always self referential, it is a hang-up, is quiet on the walk to flatbush avenue, the air is crisp, and my hands, face and feet are almost instantly numb. i can feel the fever creeping back into my bones, the dull, concrete whittles down my spine, and already i can't envision walking all the way to flatbush to find a willing cab, a thirty fucking dollar scam, to rumble me through the time space into the maha-kali. worse than i could have imagined, flatbush avenue is a reeking, exhaust filled parking lot. it seems i am destined to spend a little more time with my long lost lover, Brooklyn, today. i take one look at the gridlock, and know that walking to Manhattan is the fastest possible way to get to work, no-one else can make it all day, just like yesterday, and nothing is getting done, especially as i sit on the corner, watching the heatwaves of car fumes while their way into the clear blue. let's walk for a bit, i say, though the concept of actually making it to the studio is not sinking into my reality in any way, my bones already aching, and feet stiff with the cold. on down the avenue, we are passing cars, someone offers to take one of us into the city, i know i could catch another ride, but she is unwilling to go alone, in a car with strangers. i say that it is o.k., that they are not strangers, that they are brooklyn-ites, and we are all cool with each other, as long as there is some adversity to adhere to. she still passes, and i know we are in for a long, beautiful walk through old downtown Brooklyn, along with the seeming millions of other folks that crowd the ever narrowing sidewalks like the cars next to us. i am already soaked in sweat under my coat, and i know that after the fever breaks, i will be in hard luck with wet clothes, and probably end up with fucking pneumonia. i peel off some layers, she willingly carries, and i lead on through the old burrough to the Brooklyn bridge, shining in the mid-morning, solstice sun, the shortest day with the longest shadows, drawn out melancholy. the walk is beautiful too, i am steaming, people remark, and make sideways jokes about the banjo i am carrying. we get momentum from the skyline from the bridge, the statue of liberty, and the "fuck it, we're all late" vibe, and stream through lower Manhattan, past the city hall, up through soho, noho, and union square, where i hoped for a nap in a nice warm tent. i bid the girl her way, and set foot into a long day of work, i choke back some cold remedy, swill the cooling miso soup, and barrel through to the end, this letter, a jug of o.j., and a pull off the nyquil bottle. breakfast is served. only 3 days to go.