Unmasked

Mixed signals, mixed feelings, mixing things. My Anima perfected this routine. & yes you bet she wanted to do the dance to sticky sweaty sexy swamp mantras. & yes of course she wanted to live like a westernized Alan Watts or Ram Dass. Married to midnight, staggering underneath the stars. Stammering between bars along a boulevard of plastic cups & cigarette butts. Picking crab apples, grabbing low-hanging fruit from the forbidden tree in Eden. Seedless, verboten, making mountains out of molehills. Spun, sputtered, but falling in reverse was a fall upwards. Handed down these clothes, lyrics slipped into back pockets, the pen she wrote this with. Setting sails for a sprint, wet cement, sinking into the pavement. Flight delays, jammed ignition, switching keys until one fits. Fingertips pressed into scarlet flesh, pulled out the pit, strings of mangy roots came with. Cherry-pitting, deadheading plants. Splitting rice from lentils, practicing patience. The sailor sits, & curses. A reverie turned purgatory for Hades had a gate locked from inside. Stubborn resistance to the winds of change, the push & pull, tugged to & fro. Fighting this at every turn until a trust fall. Pressing pedals, pressing fallen leaves from shared peaches, devoured until only the pit remained. She tried very hard then to prove that grapes could grow on thornbushes. It all went out of sequence: the woman, a river, the soul shatter. Chose an amorphous path, the circuitous route. Threw away the blueprint, crumpled up the map, misplaced this compass on purpose. No altars, no aesthetics. The serpent eats its own tail, where we were once swallowed whole only to be spit back out from a river mouth with new lyrics. Returned to dust to be resurrected, again. Come now, come out into the world / approach the light at the end of this tunnel / crawl from the womb / steadfast, to the delta. Crossed four seasons, four state lines, & the Styx to get here. Coy, like a dead fish going with the flow of traffic, runoff of runonsentences collidingtogether until a head-on collision with clarity. Navigating conflicting currents, picking up momentum. Whispers in the whiplash warn, “there is no rebirth without death.” Went blank, fishing for words in a reservoir, flailing out of water. Icarus had not yet learned they will entice you with chains disguised as wings, so he followed the run southbound with pockets full of bones & innuendos. His wings were ready, though his heart was not. Answered the siren’s call to the City that Care Forgot. The gates swung open, potholes paved with gold. Laurel wreaths surmounted them in the garden of Adonis. It was a gathering of celestial beings, the feast of flames: frolicking with faeries, dancing with nymphs; tipsy with fascination, gallivanting through tall grass; drunk on half-fulfilled fantasies with satyrs, woodland creatures always celebrating something. Masquerading with halo rings, surrounded by charm & sunflowers. Little do the ones around him notice as they fill their lungs with smoke, their stomachs with bubbles, their nostrils with powders. Stuffed to the brim with substances until their shells crack, split open, innards spilling out to paint a beautiful mural on the parade route. Our soiled livers, damaged kidneys, cry out in agony. Stifled, silenced by the purr of the beast within. A consumption monster, ‘tis Carnival Season. A golden orchid bond between Orpheus & Pan, petals dipped into fatal toxins. I came to you bodiless, all spirit. Naked, ashamed. You met me there with grace, plucking feathers from a pair of ravens, tending to broken angel wings. Making love in washrooms, accompanied by a voyeur; Quaking Aspen, all-seeing. The treehouse in the forest, home to Artemis, still hides their secrets. Ascending this spiral staircase, tripping on barb-wire thoughts woven together until words would not come out. On the tip of your tongue, the precipice. O, my labyrinthine mind! lived in a meadow along a treacherous trail that is hard to follow. O, my labradorite heart! walking through the woods without shoes on. Steppingstones, tree galls, bony fingers. Slippery slopes & dead tree trunks lined this steep ravine. Trepidatious, treading lightly, bare feet pressed into pine needles. Toadstool rings, trapped inside their circle. The sacrificial lamb laid out on the table, lethal weapons underneath their trigger fingers. I had my own since you cannot win a class war with a gun. Your sharp teeth were too soft to puncture their epidermis. Stole a bone from Heaven, an old dog’s dinner. Pulled it from their kennel, took another. Bit off more than I could chew, more than I could handle. I was no better than the beast that devours without remorse. Tucked my tail between my legs, muzzled, but I bit back. Baring teeth, wearing a big smile while you made a mess of me. I walked those miles. I tried to change. I tried to escape the maze in my brain, banging my head against walls until I had a migraine. Spent the doldrums of summer in a swamp, stuck in the muck. There was something in the water, rustling in the reeds. So, I decided to leave like a gemstone with rough edges ripped to shreds in a grotesque process of erosion. Both heels were bruised, languidly learning to walk without feet before we could run. Chasing the dragon, gently blowing on embers. Unsheathed your double-edged sword, your mighty lyre. Slain. The woman, a river. No matter how we bend, or meander, we were destined to reach our depths. Everyone along this sacred path became a mentor, holding mirrors to see the blind spots, a helping hand to herd us home. Collected rainwater & manna; trinkets & treasures; choppy fragments, configuring stanzas. The sea donned dancing diamonds, preaching to a choir, “fearlessness is freedom”. Spent three nights fasting, found shelter in a temple deep down in Atlantis. I looked up at a broken spectre glittering on the surface of water, reaching for it. Aren’t we all shrouded in light & darkness. The period serves its purpose. I was the hero & the villain. I was the lamb & the executioner. I was the evasive fox & beautiful liar. I was Icarus, Pan, & Orpheus. I was the she-wolf in a closet, clawing their way out, wearing sheep’s clothing. A funeral for the fawn, a celebration of life. I am dying, again, like a tree does every season to grow new branches, decorated with leaves. Perhaps I desired to grow roots in the pavement, but I am not a boy. I am a bird. It was all the same trip: rites, rituals, resurrection; signs, symbols, sigils, subliminal messages. I transitioned back into myself. Now, isn’t that a silly sentence.