Monthly Archives: August 2014

Corona XIV


Circling the sun, I will return to you.

For whatever it’s worth, (not much, not like

Metal or gems,) that’s a promise. And, true,

I am just a dog (distant, loyal, bright.)

I light the sky so I can cry out, yes.

But so what? This was always a problem

Of bodies, things in motion and at rest,

Resting, like silence in a song, a hymn.

If the gods did not set us in motion,

Wind us up and let us act out our roles,

We still would have reached the self-same notion:

Leave but return, like a star at the pole.

I was a crystal sphere, but now I see

Relativity could not protect me.


Mystagogue, Pt. 8

I walked that dark, pulsating path for what felt like an eternity (but was very likely only about thirty seconds.) The ground became soft underfoot, less like stone and more like freshly turned soil. The air grew warm and damp and I thought to myself, “I am in the belly of the beast now. I shall be devoured whole.

“What an exciting development in the field of ethnography! I bet I get a book deal out of this!”

With a spring in my step (due both to my own excitement and to the fleshy, springy nature of the surface beneath me,) I came to a circular chamber, the walls alive with a sense of palpable malice.

I registered this all secondarily. The first thing I noticed, and which I proceeded to examine in extensive, deliberate detail as befits a master ethnographer such as myself, was the smirking, naked form of the priestess. She was sitting atop what appeared to be an altar constructed from bone (although perhaps constructed is the wrong word. It seemed to jut out of the floor, like a broken tooth erupting from bleeding gums.) Her body was covered in signs and sigils I had never seen before, not even in the Church’s most sacred texts, strange forms tattooed and carved into her skin (in my professional opinion, those characters upon her chest were the most compelling.)

She dropped softly from the altar to the ground, and it was then that I noticed the rather large knife she held in her hand. I recognized it’s fat, curving shape from time spent with the dying Phish’r peoples of the Pacific Northwest back on Earth: it was a skinning knife.

“The hundred and eighth wisdom is that the Bloody Tongue devours all that it tastes,” the priestess said as she advanced on me. “The hundred and ninth is that all living creatures hear the cry of the Howler. The hundred and tenth is that the masquerade has many dancers but only one master.”

Mystagogue, Pt. 7

I turned the corner but the priestess wasn’t there. I could hear her voice still, growing alternately louder and softer with each passing moment. But the path ahead was straight and narrow, cramped and cold. There was nowhere the priestess could have gone, nowhere that would account for the impossible acoustics I found myself listening to. And there was certainly nowhere she could have been that would explain how close her voice seemed to be as I heard her whisper, “Onward, ‘scientist,’ onward.”

I looked around. The priestess was not there. The path behind me seemed impossibly dark (not that it had ever made sense from where it would have been lit.) I turned back and went the only way I could.


The walls changed. The marks of masonry became more crude, more deliberate. The delicate arabesques that had been so prominent the beginning of the tunnel gave way to careless chisel marks, deep gouges and knicks. I put my hand on the wall, felt the scars and grooves with my fingers, and although it seemed impossible, I could have sworn that was a quality of warmth and wetness to the stone, as if I were touching the side of some living thing.

Or perhaps the gullet of some great and terrible monster.


The voice called. I answered. I was dimly aware that even as I heard the voice’s words so clearly, as if they had been spoken inside my own head, I could still just make out the priestess’s murmuring. It was mostly indistinguishable, but a few phrases leaped out to me. “The seventh wisdom,” she said. “…the rendering of the veil… the eighteenth wisdom… the three-lobed burning eye… the hundred and first wisdom…” But she grew no closer nor no farther, and the hallways stretched on eternally.

Until suddenly they didn’t. I came at last to an intersection, a simple T with a path to my left and a path to my right. The walls along those paths had changed once more, had become impossibly smooth and circular, ten feet or more in diameter. They were winding. I imagined them in my mind, and I saw them serpentine.

These tunnels, at least, were natural. I knew that something had dug them, something titanic. Something that does not walk, that has never walked, and never will.

“Onward. Downward. Hurry, scientist. Faster.”

“But I don’t know which way to go,” I whispered softly. “I don’t know which is the right path.”

To my left, the walls pulsed, expanding and contracting like a beating heart.

I followed.

Mystagogue, Pt. 6

I stood there, my face stinging sharply (and feeling downright punctured in at least one spot. The priestess wore several gaudy jewel-tipped rings, and I wondered if she’d somehow managed to turn one inward before striking me.)

I reached up and gently rubbed the sore spot on my cheek. I drew my fingers back and examined them, searching for blood and finding none. In light of this lack of evidence, I was forced to re-examine my hypothesis about the ring: she must have stricken me with some kind of a curse instead.

I looked down at my hand, waiting to see my skin slough off or my fingers turn into snakes or any of the other classic signs of an evil curse. When none were forthcoming, I looked up and made (very brief) eye contact with the priestess and fixed her what I hoped was a withering glare. “I suppose this means that the tour is over.”

She sighed. “I sincerely wish. But my god has spoken, and it seems that I am the mortal that will not be getting what they want.” She turned from me and began walking away. “You, at least, shall be the recipient of more wisdom.”

I stood and simply stared in confusion. She disappeared around a corner, speaking as she went. The sound of her voice, the echo of her footsteps, all the noise she was making went silent impossibly fast. I had no choice but to chase after her.

Corona XIII


A blue promise of happiness, like Earth

Floating alone. A point of hope nestled

Among endless dark. You gave me words worth

More than platinum melted down and forged,

Beaten and shaped by an artisan’s hands

Into some bright and shining colossus,

A monument on lone and level sands,

A voyaging satellite’s existence

Fulfilled, an opus, an ode. Be my muse

And I will be your krater. Be my wine

And I will be your water. Be diffuse.

Mix with me and be whole, our souls entwined.

I am complete and my orbit is true.

Circling the sun, I will return to you.

Corona XII



I mutter, mad at last, or perhaps not.

But who hears? We send signals out into

The void, whispering at targets that dot

The night sky, that move all around and through,

So desperate are we. Be heard. Scream at

The dark that you exist. Hear no response.

Whisper your truths again anyway. What

Else can be done? The stars move. Time and chance

Steal everything but hope, so you must hope.

Tell the dark how tall you stand and what you

Are made of. Speak the name of home. Elope.

Return. Fall. Ascend. Tell the story true.

Whisper now (as you’ve been called to since birth)

A blue promise of happiness like Earth.

Corona XI

I’ll be alternating between Corona and Mystagogue for the remainder of the month. Gotta keep you on your toes.



Beauty viewed through a glass darkly, sickly.

This is my universe: Science, Magick,

Telescopes and looking glass, art thickly

Drawn on naked bodies, an explicit

Sense of wonder at it all. The sky is

Ours, promised in texts penned by gods and men.

And what am I but a godly man, kissed

With a madness that burns the heart and brain?

I am the Devil,here to do business.

I am Therion courting Babalon.

I am self-made, and I have no weakness.

I am a rocket. I will spite the sun.

Now I am Mercury. No further thought,”

I mutter, mad at last, or perhaps not.

%d bloggers like this: