(*with excerpts from Another Lonely Pilgrim)
I came into this world as a stranger—a foreigner to many things—and as time rushes on, I’ve found that strangeness appears in many shapes and sizes.
I got stuck trying to process one feeling- the sensation of familiar spirits, familiar transits, familiar environments and the fear of unknown ones.
This “foreign” feeling sometimes came from outside, but it also snuck up on me from within; so I buried it by the crossroads and walked down a different path.
INVOCATION:
yo, talk to Lucifer,
he's been trying to reach you;
You cry out to Venus,
but he doesn't greet you.
If you blindly charge love,
then I beseech you:
tread light over ground,
lest it come meet you.
Part I: Lamentation From a Worn-Out Venue
I wish I had a zipper,
from my skull down to my ass,
so I could slip from my skin,
and walk naked through the world.
Something inside is starving for freedom,
something begging for a little more space,
to release all the captive energy
waiting to explode while I'm at my job...
I'm not crazy; I want to be natty,
And I can already feel those fine teeth
as I slide my hand down the crooked curves
leading away from the seat of my soul.
Practicing while I'm at work,
I lift my heels from the ground,
forsake this mortal coil,
and float across the cold Earth.
Then I set off across the sea of stars.
Without a form, I can go anywhere;
I can float across the abyss inside,
and see wells that my heart draws water from…
so much joy can live behind someone's eyes
as they scream at stars— Phosphorus burns bright.
They shed their skin, drop their baggage (and trash…)
and feel with every fiber of their being
There's something weird about it;
I feel closer to the truth;
like every faux face and smile
I've ever worn was an act.
Unfortunately, my body's still here-
waiting in the back wings of this theater,
swaying with a puppet's protracted grace
until it's time to clock out and go home.
Mentally, I've been clocked out for hours;
my uniform hangs loose over my frame,
and my mind won't latch on to spoken words;
The noise is just another lullaby.
Load-in at the crack of dawn,
and out by witching hour.
My job is liminal, and
I exist between that.
I exist between this show and the next.
And the one after that. Just a brief pause
before the next string of tasks begins, and
I fall back into the rhythm of things.
But I'm turned around inside— desperately
balancing plates between the night and day—
calling my friends from the only drive thru
that's still awake when I have time to breathe.
My eyes sweep across the space,
searching for something solid—
something real inside those walls.
I want color. Something alive.
There's so much of it at work, but it's fake;
“Color,” I mean. It's the mask that we wear—
the facade we have to show our patrons—
to conceal the voids behind the scaffolding.
Empty, because there are no spirits there
nor days when a stray wisp might wander in,
save for mournful fellows remembering
when all the people came to offer praise.
A venue. A location.
A staging area for something more.
An altar for outsiders
to fulfill their dreams, then go home.
When the performance is struck,
all the color washes down to the ground,
And floods out the doors to follow the crowds—
making slick rainbows on the street.
The concrete reminds me of a blank stage,
where brutal shadows and hues dance for me
with a new set of forms to admire.
And all the color in me drains with it.
Part II: A Retreat Back to the Sacred Garden
When I’m headless, I can dream;
and with that sacred distance,
ask myself, “why I choose
to stay in empty temples?”
On my days off, I pondered this question
as I walked to a clearing in the trees
where the light's gaze was unperturbed
and a wide-open sky waited for my prayers—
A quiet little spot out of the way
where I could clear out my head and take flight—
somewhere to listen to the land and stars
without getting caught in the plots of men.
I came to that place alot,
to that small sanctuary
where I could escape my work
and finally feel alive.
I live for these moments out in the wild
(if the wild even exists anymore).
I yearn for the interconnectedness
of mycelium networks underfoot—
slowly weaving everything together.
Instead there's this long and quiet distance
as we play different scripts in our heads—
scripts i never found the passages for.
But distance is so fickle—
because someone else came there.
Strings of garland through the trees
and rocks painted with bright muds.
Who were they? What did they want from that place?
Did I stumble upon somewhere sacred?
It felt like it; but did they feel that too?
Did they feel the energy in the ground?
Something inside is telling me to run—
to find another holy place to rest
before they rip this facade from its frame
and cast it all adrift— me included.
Admittedly, I’m not fond of people
but I can't explain the reasoning why
except to mention how cold the world is.
Truly, that's my main reason.
There's also: fear, disgust, fascination,
and about nineteen more herbs and spices
found in Heaven's Forgotten Party Mix.
I know that dry, earthy taste, oh, so well.
But, strangely, I felt more alive that day,
as if the garden had found some new guests
who would set aside their own prideful masks,
and pour themselves into the wind instead.
The sun felt warm on my skin
and the noises in the air
buzzed with entropic textures
inviting me to explore.
There was a tree at the clearing’s center,
with a boulder that I would lie upon
and stare up at the sky in reverie;
that stone bed was turned into an altar—
with a covering of loose moss, grasses,
and a skirt made of colorful flowers.
Beside was a bottle of ale, open;
a sour libation waiting for the earth.
I resolved to return soon
But it was always empty when I came,
And I rarely heard a fugitive step
wind the path’s long procession.
What I found, instead, was a steady stream
of garbage slowly accumulating
in the shadows of that sanctuary.
Crumpled up cans and empty blunt wrappers.
piles of dark ash and a pair of socks .
But the flowers were still fresh and vibrant—
and the place lacked a certain human touch before—
so I was happy to clean up after.
I walked the lone road through the gate to Eden—and lived as a suppliant and a traveler. I walked till I came to the archway where east meets west.
I walked through the far west and learned from stewards and patrons. I walked over the horizon and there I found my crossroads once again.
Once again the Way felt foreign, yet I’d never left the garden— and I couldn’t figure out which way was mine: east or west.
So I sat down, to wait for the next passing pilgrim, to see if we could walk together.
Part III: Paradise Subsumed in Rot
I was dreaming for some time,
and life has been a slow awakening.
Not the sudden, violent start
people often talk about.
The Awakening was: the unfurling,
the stretching and probing to set down roots,
demons defeated a lifetime ago,
and the patterns I never could escape.
I can circumscribe all these dimensions,
but only when the mask is really off—
only when the firmament is peeled back—
stripped off layer by layer. Then I'm free.
*plastic strings and solo cups.
Half a box of Modelo
split in two along the seams.
Seven shoes lost in bushes.
It started out small, but progressively grew bigger,
Until it was spilling onto the path:
the pile of shit people left to rot
(not literal shit, except that one time…)
The spongy soil compressed under foot,
until everything around was barren,
and the branches of the young, budding trees
dangled precariously from split bark
The land was so beautiful
from the bounties that she fed us.
And the gratitude we showed
was to coax more out of her.
Divided by the fine line inbetween
the stars above and the land six–feet–deep,
people pick, and trim, and reap, and sow till
the original being doesn't exist.
now I remember why I don't like people.
I don't like the speed everyone goes at;
even outside, we waste time performing.
I can't keep up with every scene change.
I need this face, just in case
I need to reach out a hand
to friendly fallen angels
who'll send me on my way.
No angels paid visit on the morrow .
I was already half done anyway,
But i was hoping someone would return
To finish all the work of cleaning up.
Instead I found myself working again.
A puppet again— without strings this time.
Which was concerning from implications
I drew between this and my own free will.
*It went on for ten long weeks:
an unnatural disaster.
Cleaning— in isolation—
remains of a bacchanal most foul.
Against the frustration, and gnashing of teeth,
I continued offering devotion
to the small place that brought me so much light.
Did I feel like a fool? A little bit…
But fools have two paths stretching before them:
One drawn to the heavens above their head,
Another descending below their feet.
I crawled out my skin so I could walk both.
What I do on my own time
is a reflection of me.
Every sacrifice I make
Is for the growth of my soul.
If I looked away, it would be the same
as abandoning the passion I held.
If I leave, it's just another venue.
I can't control the actions of others—
I have no hunger for domination;
But I can control my response to them.
An equal and opposite reaction
from another agent in this garden.
Part IV: Hear This Lonely Pilgrim’s Plea
As they make their own journeys
to a domain with free will,
Others are attracted to
this sacred sanctuary.
That patch of land wasn't mine to begin with—
that tiny clearing down by the water;
But I cried like it was where I was born,
because it was there that I last awoke
from the deep slumber shrouding this old soul.
But now the grass is dying before me.
My tears will just salt the Earth further, but
I can't help but mourn this dusty brown patch.
I was haunted by hiraeth—
feeling we can't have nice things
because of something that's wrong
with the way people just… are.
Hesperus told me, “you can't hide true light,
It just gets obscured by what you can't see—
The many long shadows you left behind
last time you stood before the aperture”
Hell isn't a punishment,
it's where you go when you're lost.
When up is down, left is right,
and the light is lost behind the labyrinth.
The underworld is full of
good intentions going sour
as we leave them on the road
to search for another thing.
Somewhere along the way, people get lost.
they forget their mind crossed the horizon
and- mistaking their own shadows for walls-
They think all that's left is that bright spotlight.
They shred apart those rotten fleshly masks
till Old Scratch can't recognize the long faces
of actors caught into colorful light—
still stuck pretending after the curtain falls.”
So if I cast myself out,
would I just be pretending
that I don't care what happens?
‘Cus at work I'm a puppet?
If I'm just a doll, then who brought me here?
Who made me pick up trash, and for what role?
Who cast me in this part? Surely not them!
I made a decision to go off script,
And another when I choose to bring friends.
To keep this space as more than a venue.
Even with all this melancholic woe,
I already moved— without direction.
We can't control everyone
we end up entangled with;
But we're all just as alive—
made of ever-changing cells.
Whoever said the underworld was cold
was a goddamn liar, I'll tell you that!
Really, nobody wants to be forgotten;
So we huddle together and reminisce—
sharing what we remember of the sun,
the feeling of the wind on sweaty skin,
rainy days, trailing messes behind us,
even the annoying mosquito bites.
I'll breathe life back into this dying soil—
so this free will can grow in someone else;
And— together— healing won't be so bad.
Across the horizon, at every stage,
everyone has told me to live fully.
That's what I was doing in the clearing—
touching grass and exercising free will—
nurturing life that's full of many shades.
Because a perfect world
waits further beyond the stars,
but all I want today is
another lonely pilgrim.
