Aquarius 2° (January 22) 106


I am the Warlock

People are Witches would make a good bumper sticker

But the point is we are, that’s our natural state.

We’ve been made, rendered, powerless. We have so

much more power than we think we do.

Our brand is our message

Astrology speaks truth to power, it’s proof of your individuality

We navigate by the stars.

I get visual feelings.

All is poetry.

I want to open the back of my mind to messaging from the great beyond, that Piscean portal to the All where one speaks the language of poetry only. Sometimes I hear it and catch it in those moments before falling asleep or waking. That is to say that the poetry exists; we can only hear it and capture bits, craftying them with our own language. I wonder if the greatest poets are not those who can siphon the purest sap.

As I write this I can the vision of He in the temple. He has been there, in my life, now, since, I want to say, 1986 or so. I see certain things clearly. I am looking into a courtyard of stone fitted with lean pillars, no roof of course, but all else unpourous, white stone aged black into tiny crooks and corners, the energy or this internal building directed upward. The light is cool and blue and as I am at the front right corner of the atrium he sits left of center, on the other side, a little ways away; he would be nearly diagonal from me if he slid over to his right along the stone bench that squares the entire inner sanctum, behind him first a banquette of stone rising to around the height of his head, and behind him, and indeed the entire square banquette all around, is a gallery, darker blue, still, whereabouts one would walk; I am sort of hiding behind the corner or the banquette on my side, peering in from the gallery and he sits, fairly motionless, wearing a bluish white jalaba, tunic, caftan type garment, sitting, straight backed, shoulders relaxes, hands resting in his lap; tall, ultra thin and muscular, with a shock of black hair shining blue sky reflection, Adam’s apple, jawline, smiling mouth and eyes.

He waits and I want to ask what does he wants, but he doesn’t want anything though his eyes as the question that is all questions combined, I don’t know what it is in my mind but I try to feel its fullness with my visceral intelligence lodged in the immaterial organ in the center of myself. What is it; that is no question. Time is not here and the cool, blue light makes me love but it is confused. I want to stay and yet I never quite approach only ever coming to the moment when we first lock eyes, neither of us caught unawares.


Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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