Last night, I sat at a coffee shop and sipped wine while writing.  The logical/editing half of my brain has been in overdrive for weeks, so I needed to engage the other half before I went nuts. To help my students get in touch with their subconscious minds, I often encourage them to write whatever comes into their heads without stopping or censoring themselves in any way, so I did what I ask them to do. This is what I wrote.  It makes no sense, I know. (Well, Freud might have a field day with it.)  But I thought it was kind of bizarrely pretty anyway.  So I’m sharing it.


Beloved, I tried to ride to you.  All my horses died.  The apocalypse is upon us.  Wells of holy water have dried, leaving me stranded in this desert, cold and alone.  I wait on my father’s mountain, chant mantras on his grave, eating cactus fruit, doing my best to stave off Armageddon.

Last night, stars fell, and so what? As if the death of everything was any match for love. As if darkness ever once shoved light down so far it never came back up.

If I can’t ride, I’ll walk to you. 

I’ll find you four days after the birth of spring, in the place where a newly painted sun Lazaruses, murals out over concrete, echoes of Diego Rivera casting blue Chilean glow. Ra blazes. The broad gaze of God burns the way clear. Already, six sentinels, mountains made of tin cans, stand near the street, rattling to let you know

your queen comes.

I’ll send you a message in a bottle, written in the language of doves. Our love is the strongest, longest song I have ever known, the only thing I sing.  In my dreams, bees sting me, impregnating pores, changing skin to honeycomb.  I’ve always known the secrets they buzz. I just forgot for a millennium.

I’ll graffiti the sunlit wall,

unwrap crumbling maps, untrap carrier pigeons, set them free. The missiles tied to their toes will read:

Deep in the heart of spring, I’ll wait by the ocean before Saint Peter’s song is done, 24 hours before his drums have dwindled to nothing, praying that you, sweat drenched and smoke soaked, having coached a team of demons, maybe a little drunk, escape the hazy House of Hades. Leave behind its grease laden tables stretching for miles. 

As the nearby city sleeps and its angels fall, crashing into the sea, boiling it, soiling it with seeds of God, I’ll watch the horizon, dreaming of you, reading Louise Glück’s Firstborn, celebrating her birth, mourning our deaths. I’ll cry your ghost’s name, 92,629 times, until Ra hears me and resurrects you. At a crested park where graves made from the bones of long buried shipwrecks upend themselves, goddesses once sleeping will lift aloft at last their golden lanterns. Under her widow’s garb, Isis will be naked. The moon will bear witness. Divine Dana will point the way.

The playground that once rang with the shouts of children will be deserted, swings hanging slack.  But I’ll sing, slipping down slides, making sand angels, listening to the tide roll in the distance. I’ll ring church bells at midnight and beyond.

Beautiful boy, if you are ever lonely, I’ll hurricane my way to your bed. The place where I live in your head will sizzle when I am close. Listen for cannon fire. Keep your eyes peeled for smoke.

Heaven broke, knowing unless a seed falls into the ground and dies, it lies forever fallow. We were buried. We are risen. I’ll wade to you in shallow water, a full-fledged daughter of Poseidon, a sister of the sun.

I’ll serve myself up to you on the half-shell, Aphrodite-style.

Spring came early this year. Pomegranate blossoms erupted and shattered behind the clear glass of your eyes. You saw me coming. I watched you waiting in the waves. The graves of prophets gave up their dead. The Queen of Heaven crooned herself red.

I married you in my dreams.

Our wedded tongues gave birth to newborn gods.

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