Reasons to Live

December 5, 2016


For Arlene

The guy with the beautiful waist-length Byronic hair
stands braced in black fish-nets, silver tutu, and high heels
playing his violin without a trace of irony
at the entrance of 24th and Mission
where I’m elbowing through the suits and prostitutes
to get on the 5:13 to Richmond.
Ruby music spills like the blood I’ve been carrying in test-tubes all day,
sweet as raisins and almonds at a Jewish wedding.
That, too, is a reason to live
even when the long tunnel feels endless
and the months stretch out between real kisses.
All of us commuters read so we don’t have to feel
tons of dark water, pressing down on us,
and the steel-lace bridge arcing impossible miles above,
carrying a million cars, a million tiny drivers
like a battalion of sperm aimed at the ovum of evening,
slivers of sun shooting into their tired eyes,
making them wince with beauty. Music is the day’s blood,
it weaves under and over the roar of the train,
the way thought plays its sweet percussion in our wrists and throats
even while we sit so quietly, we can hear the small sounds our hearts make
when they have finished breaking themselves
against the rock of the impossible and the beautiful.
Mother-in-law, musician, friend – you know how hard I tried
to make a bridge, to make a tunnel
between one man and one woman
or between the human and divine in both of us,
between spirit and animal. That I failed is beside the point.
Now I struggle to make the daily trek
between Oakland and the Mission,
and I’m ferried along, I’m even helped
by these currents of invisible music
and the humans who strive in the city – when I turn
to find something beautiful, it is always at my side.
Greed is also a saving grace. I still
want more, you know; another love, another
go-round, and in the meantime more
light, more freedom,
more music that gives the feeling of flying

Alison Luterman


I may kill. You should know this about me.
A razor in the night, without warning.
Objects contain the possibility
Of all situations. States of being
Embrace all imaginable events.
Any one life, or pair of lives, harbours
Every death. The succession of presents
Comprehends all foreseeable futures.
I have it in me to be a galaxy
Or one leaf on the frond of a fern.
I may become light in a sanctuary
Kindled by a rose window, or a cairn
Older than the woods it renders holy.
I may become water or earth. I may burn.

H. L. Hix

I’m not that concerned

December 5, 2016


I turn quotes in my head
I want to recite Buffy
but I need to publish some books,
at least two books, before that.

I’m sure there’s some exponential degree
before I discuss Third Eye Blind.
They’re a band people used to know,
but everyone whines about Goyte
while I pretend I didn’t buy acrylic paint
to replicate the video for Halloween.

I’ve read more Steinbeck
than I’ll ever read poems,
prayed for Jeffrey Goldblum’s safety
from velociraptors.

Nothing I do is cool.
I’m not that concerned
because I can wear short skirts
and don’t need anti-aging cream:
I’m still carded at bars.

Tracy Diamond

sex magick ritual

December 5, 2016


This sex magick ritual is recommended for frequent practice. Through this ritual the ideal self is purified, extracted, and then ingested. Thus the procreative process is leveraged to produce oneself as ones offspring and then you become that child.

Before performing this ritual you should have a magical name or motto and a sigil designed from this.

Self consuming should be preceded by a banishing and centring ritual such as the Star Ruby, Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram, or other similar practice. You should feel powerful, clean, and centred going into this ritual. A ritual bath or other cleansing is useful. It is convenient to perform this ritual in a shower or bath.

Stand erect and reach above your head with both hands. Feel above you the presence of Desire, in whatever form this takes for you. With your left hand cradle the tips of the fingers of your right hand between the fingers and thumb of your left. Bring your left down and push up with your right and allow your fingertips to symbolically pierce the opening between the fingers and thumb of your left. Alternately you may visualize a phallic form of desire above you which you stroke. Whatever form Desire suggests is correct. From this draw down the divine fluid of desire to your forehead and begin intoning the “I” of “I-A-O”.

As your finger tips touch your forehead feel awareness of a bright light opening as a tunnel within you and through you. Bring your fingers down to your heart and feel this opening through. As your reach your heart intone “A”. Clutch your hands together then pull them apart as if rending a veil or opening a curtain. This is the overwhelming and overcoming of self. You push through your own identity and cast it off in this motion.

Now let your hands fall to your genitals. Feel the light continue down and settle here. Desire settles in the seat of your desire. This may be a sense of presence in the clitoris, prostate, g-spot, or phallus.

You may wish to sit, squat, or lay down as is comfortable for you now. Wherever you feel the feeling of Desire has settled, at this point trace with your fingertips the sigil of your magical name or motto. While doing this begin intoning this name or motto. Repeat intoning this throughout.

With the sigil drawn and clearly visualized upon your desire, begin massaging and stimulating yourself to bring yourself to climax. At the moment of climax, feel this divine desire excreted in your sexual fluids. Catch this and cradle it. Bring it to your lips and consume it, feeling its energy integrate throughout your being.

Repetition of this ritual will help you become the person you wish to be. Each performance acts to further distil this essence within you.

Source: The Church Ov Nothing

pagan, with occult tips

December 5, 2016


Diary 5th December

Slightly jaded today. A little hungover, perhaps. Feeling very pagan.


‘I love you more than yesterday,’ I said. ‘And yesterday I loved you infinities…’


My mission should I accept it, is to obtain carnal knowledge of everyone in this house who is still breathing…


Drown me in December gales…Or bury me in snow that is blanket thick, and the colour of a wild swan’s feathers. Oh, do, please do…


Freezing fog the other day. It came nearer and neared, seemed to flow round the house, sending tentative fingers into the frontporch.

Glancing up at the window she said, ‘It’s very foggy.’

She relaxed and sighed. After our lovemaking, she always goes limp, drained. The fierceness of her, though, when we are loving makes inscrutable the sane. Me, I remain malleable as worry beads. Know what I mean?


Gabby asked about the latest story. It’s not finished yet. About a simple-minded young boy who sits all day in front of a tick-tocking grandfather clock. The clock is the centre of his world. He ignores his mother and father. Sees them as abstract distractions from the reality of the clock. In desperation, one day, they remove the clock and hide it in the attic. The boy’s life is shattered by this sudden and unexpected absence: he’s convinced the clock has died and that his parents are responsible. They have hidden its body. He leaves home, goes in search of the clock’s final resting place, while planning a suitable vengeance on these clock killers, his parents…