Knucklebones

Unfold your last dollar
Ain't thick enough to keep you warm
Unfold that last dollar
Ain't thick enough to keep you warm
Then whisper to the knucklebones
Sway the lady with your charms

She loves to smooch and nuzzle
Sometimes she'll flirt with you
She enjoys the slap n' tickle
Some nights she'll dance with you
But that other guy's looking handsome
And she's trying something new

You can ask her twenty questions
What she wants she'll never tell
Go and ask a million questions
What she wants she'll never tell
You'll never find her desire
Till you see how those knucklebones fell

So listen to the knucklebones
No promises, no lies
Yes, listen to those knucklebones
No promises, no lies
They just rattle out the numbers
Don't care who laughs or cries

They just rattle out the numbers
Don't care who lives or dies

Step Into the Circle

Today's ritual will let you
pour out a shot from
the crystal decanter
of other people's feelings;
will steep us in their essences;
will let seep into our psyches
every trace of their flavors.

This is not a popular spell.
Not every flavor is tasty.

Taste the rain.
Taste the dusty musk of pollen
washed out of the wind and
down into the hungry funnels of flowers.
Tase the rancid-vinegar agony
of crushed love lashing your palate.
Taste satisfaction like green blades waving;
like braids of grain and the
decadent soil from which they sprouted.
Taste ten thousand slights;
rage and humiliation
stinging the sides of your tongue.
Taste peat and oak, the smoke
of twenty thousand fiery triumphs.

This is not a popular spell:

To sip someone else's elixir
means you may never again
be able to hide from yourself
the myriad flavors mixed in your own potion.

Still, for those who dare,
this ritual will reveal
how small even the mightiest feel
and how mighty
even the smallest
(even you).

Still interested? Steel yourself, and
step into the circle.

Demeter Responds

Spend a season
as a dandelion does
calculating the colors of sunshine

on a supercoiled
double helix
abacus.

Tease text from
the signal hidden in
a summer of noise.

Look at a single seed
then try to tell me
wildflowers have no secrets.

Persephone Explains

Down here, where the light can't lie,
the different pitch of every drip and drop rippling,
the clatter of rocks spalled by ice,
the groan of faultlines grinding,
are syllables, filtered pure
like the water perking through gravel and cracks.

I spend my winters stacking syllables,
touching each sound with my tongue
while the ages erode the stone grain by grain.

No wildflower ever knew these secrets.

Oracle

This week Kira has been dreaming--

dreaming of smoke signals
puffing gray out of
a lake of pale fog;
a ravine half-full of mist;

dreaming of graffiti
scrawled underneath the eaves
of the tower of a subdivided Victorian;

dreaming of the staccato chatter
of a freight train
swaying over a truss bridge
tapping out a prisoner's message
from she-knows-not-which cell.

Now she's listening
and her waking day murmurs to her--
oak trees snapping in
the hostile cold of a February shortcut;
wind off the lake
strumming the guy wires of a phone pole--

She is a child in a circle of children
whispering corrupted data.

Morning Glory Tea

Never again,
Paul promised himself,
will I ever mix
Morning Glory Tea
and acid.

Not a bad trip,
but deep,
deep as only Rose could take him
and only Rose could bring him back.

She'd dragged him sleepy still
through the last gray minutes of night
up to the top of the old colonial watchtower.
She tucked a tiny paper square under his tongue
and they watched the wash
of the red end of the spectrum
as the sun began its climb.
They drank bitter, dizzying tea and
traded koans and non sequiturs
back and forth with the tiny steel cup.

Rose grew restless
and hauled Paul to his feet
and down into the tangled yarn ball,
the streets and alleys of Edgemere
still tossing pointed questions over her shoulder,

Her follow-the-leader game
wound through the cramped corridors
of secondhand stores and sandwich shops
where black iron pipes hung from the ceiling
chattered with flowing water
carrying rumors to the sea.

Then they were dashing across rooftops
and all of Paul's senses blended
he ran his hand along the texture of her questions,
all silk and gravel and polished steel;
savored the crushed spices of her songs;
now nutmeg; now curry; now oregano.

Rose wrenched open a door
and they pounded down endless stairs,
willing their feet to keep up with
their flying, gyreing bodies
until abrupt level flatness shocked their knees
and spilled them into the street.

Paul began to flash back,
his mind replaying the morning
so Rose hauled him again to his feet
and retraced their path,
this time with her reciting poems;
torches and tygers burning bright
and something about walls.

Then they did it again;
this time Rose revealed and
disappeared small objects;
a peripatetic magic act
winding through the city.

Each instance of their journeys
overlapped in Paul's mind
and he watched, enthralled,
as multiple Roses,
invisible to each other,
synchronized uncannily,
like a record album and an old movie;
the needle placed at the lion's third roar.

It became too much for him; too many.
She brought him to her place
and lowered the blinds
and he pawed through her playlists and discs
and played hours of gentle music
in the cool dimness of her living room;
cuddled with her on the couch
tracing spirals with his fingertips
on her forearms and cheekbones
and the along the soft pulse of her neck.

“Have you ever gone so deep,”
he asked that evening when he noticed
the trickle of reality reasserting itself,
“ever gone so deep that you had to have
someone guide you back?”

“I have,”
she replied, nipping the hinge of his jaw,
“and thank you,” she murmured,
“for guiding me back.”

Polyalphabetic Cryptograms

This summer she's indulging in equilibrium;
letting power pool around her,
certain that, when the ripples subside,
some psychic coriolis force
will start to swirl around her center.

She's been studying secrecy
--not secrets, but the keeping of secrets;
the talking-around-a-subject
that sends a searcher spiraling in deeper
from truth to truth.

She has twisted the texts of her spells
into polyalphabetic cryptograms.
She has charged the cells of her Vigenere square
and tangled her incantations
to work up a whole new ritual.

Tonight she'll climb the Kundalini Fire Escape,
a fountain of force writhing up her spine.
She will dissolve this twisted magnificence
with a jolt of regenerative chaos
to send a shockwave of arcana into the world.

That transubstantiation of impulse
will randomize nastiness and purify our urges.
She wants to encipher scorn so well
that not even the most irrational cryptanalyst
can unscramble it.

Cult of Zeus, Hedonist

Whenever an electrical storm rolls through Edgemere
a third of the city pauses,
stretches every muscle,
shoves aside the busywork
and does something.

Men square up their shoulders
and swagger a bit more;
women stand closer, brushing accidentally,
or find lower tables to lean on.

They can feel the storm
spilling down the slopes
of the mountains to the west,
feel it advancing as the rain
pebbles the surface of the lake.

They can taste in the freshening breeze
the storm's galvanic power,
feel tiny tongues of white fire
barber-poling
along the long strands
of their euphoric nerves.

This is a time to do great things.

A time to miss meals in the workshops;
for tempestuous trysts or midnight road trips;
the time to fire up epic all-nighters.

Listen! Thunder grumbles: Now is the time;
the time when you can pelt full-tilt along
an eight inch wide board bridging two buildings,
confident in every springing step;

the time when the end of the alley
twists the dice to eleven
whenever your dollars demand it;
the time when both of you realize
at the same moment
that the answer will be yes,
so you can both savor that unasked question
all through the evening.