The mirror and the red thread.

Like Christmas eve

Like the wing of an ibis we will be flying

We will be in love

All the time

Tiny pissant humbuggers, we gotta flick them

Writhing and spitting up mud on the ground.

Illusions are the connection.

Trickery is the traffic lights. 

It’s the only thing that shines out in the fog.

Like a light house.

Like a home. 

Sometimes it’s beautiful to be in the storm. 

I dip my toes in the cold pacific ocean, brimming with tropical fish.

I saw a whale there.  Am I the magic or the witness?

Life is sacred

A spiders web

An entanglement says the quantum physicists.

The psychics that worship the science and the moon.   

The temple is what we worship, what we find sacred.  A shrine, an altar, an ancestral line.

What do you pay homage to?

I give my blood to Kali everyday,

I’m not going to let a little pissant attach my name to anything less.

The rainbow in the war crimes.

The gaslight in the lighthouse. 

We look the same as the people hell bent on killing stuff.

Yet here in the water we are colourful and brave

and love has already won.