June and July [midsommar heat]

fox fires

JUN 19, 2025

monsters crawl but make no sound
in the dark they fear the fire on the ground

gushing; brisk hooves
I find it hard to breathe
with smoke filling up my lungs

I razed myself over a figure
that wiped the tears from my face
grazing my skin, darkness like smoke
filling my sight

when I woke in the dirt
I couldn’t make a sound

deep roots have grown in my garden
where flowers meet the snow

I lay in the mud, in my belly
and I find seeds who want to grow

muffled in the mud I am screaming
the devil lays above the shade
calmly whispering my name

I pray in the dirt for the storm to come,
for the foxes to take me away

here in my belly, I wait for the orchids to find me

I dream of the flowers in the snow
and for the day when God takes away my pain

here I wait in the dirt with my fruit,
my seeds, my belly, show me the way

as we wait for God to say

rain pour on down, wash the mud
from my face, my feet, my belly
tell me that my seeds will grow

—

deep roots have begun to show

in this garden, in my belly
seeds begin their journey

muffled in the mud I yell reach high
as I deny the devil every desire

my fruit, my seeds, my belly
I deny him all my blessings
and pray my roots grow stronger than I

I am praying in the dirt to the foxes that dig
in my garden, it is here in my belly

bathing in the moonlight
where flowers may have grown,
I surrender

Proudblue

JUN 21, 2025

I read a journal that wasn’t mine 
and I thought; it was wrong but 
my curious head  

strung me up like a 
lamb skin on the edge of time, 
and Medusa turned 

to face me; I swear 
I could hear the stone crack, as 
if I could see right through blood 

valentine, now I 
rest my eyes in infinite 
space, temporal; who 

slipped in the ocean 
and wrung me dry like the lamb, 
it is me, the rock 

in the sea, I am 
Medusa, floating; the truth 
how have I survived? 

the consumption with orange teeth

JUL 06, 2025

honored to be pagan, sitting beneath the willow tree
hearing the surrealist’s squalls that wonder of existence;
as we speak to the wind and the sun and the moon
notions of the dirt it connects to; the ecosystem that sleeps

I feel archaic strength beneath my toes
atoms surging through the palms of my hands
reading these deep roots as they were in ancient story
interconnected, as a grave is to a temple.

it reminds me of my youth
when I knew this sacred feeling
protected by the Shedu with wings
beneath us all, this sheath that blankets the blade.

When I entered the temple I did not know
the tomb to be watched by startled bull,
the ode to remember one’s own soul
and serenade with the precious toll.

we call upon the monolith to heal these deep wounds
that of generations past
and the genocide that lingers still;
the echoes of our brothers and sisters

that cling to life and precious moments
and we feel their wounds, the willow trees and I
because it is no longer a political decision
laying a blanket of obsidian, wrapped inside the cuneiform

of a blind-sighted narrow mind
climbing up the Tower of Babel
a hex to existence on this Terra as a nation of bodies;
we have forgotten how to stand together.

and I sing to you from a distant corner of the room
hoping you hear the slightest whisper
asking only for your hand in mine
to tear down the walls of the supremacy

that dances with demon and time
hoping we have strength and courage left
to find a challenge in waking this ancient beast
the consumption with orange teeth.

. . .

I find it best to be cloaked in black
and run through the shadows
whispering down upon the curious
sorcerer’s back.