Hailstorms, the herald of summer magick–
I am reminded of adventures as a young woman, learning to practice in the high altitude.
It was a dance of chemistry and broom and glass.
We camped in the attic and worked love spells, and then we wallpapered the entire house in poetry.
Now I like to cum when it thunderstorms
Orgasms like Kali
the sky seems to share in my shudder and I can hear my heart cry out, shatter.
Sometimes the artist finds herself in darkness and you
are left there suspended, dear Reader
on the edge of death–
there are teachers and master sorcerers
Enlightenment is at hand (and foot, and any other part belonging to human)
consciousness dawning
up up and away
always exploding
all ways the big bang, the morning of creation
reincarnation
When it hails, the air feels a little dangerous, a little too full of charge.
We tuck ourselves into bed, and fuck our lovers
or we make love to ourselves
and wait
There is a skill to possessing desire,
being the rider
and not letting it consume us.
liberation
of the heart
dear pilgrim
To those who cry artistry is but a career obsession with the self I say
art is made to touch.
We must let the world work on us
caressing us like rain storms and we must
protect the rain
as dear
as our beloved’s heart.
