A Fate Like Socrates

If there’s a Platonic demon within,
Let her guide my hand;
Guide each uncertain letter,
Even as the mind draws blank.

If there’s a Platonic demon within,
At least I’m not alone;
In this body there’s room for two, at least;
Though, I think o Victor Hugo and realize I hold a world, too.

Socrates yielded to his diamon,
And was still sentenced to death;
Forced to drink poison hemlock, and walk
Until the poison ran its course.

What use are you then?
Yet you guide my hand to that question;
I’ll answer your call, and this is the testament,
But will I be like Socrates and meet my end following you?

Ritual Before the Page

Wait for the dimming of The Effulgence
Sunset holds some charm
But the moon is the enchantress;
Meditate on her owlish demands.

Blood is not needed for this ritual;
Draw not your daggers of ceremony,
Because the lunar matron and Apollo require one thing:
The sacrifice is in segments of soul imparted to paper.

Your workspace is your altar,
Adorn it with the practical and aesthetic
Upon my alter to the craft rests Baldwin,
The patron saint over these words.

A stick of incense,
Or the mist of watered oil,
Neither have intrinsic power other than activating the senses;
In this activated state, though, you may begin.

Set your mind on the task at hand,
Then Close your eyes
and Open yourself  this visualization:
Yourself standing alone;
Multiply this self until you are abstraction
(How can you point “yourself” out in a lineup of identical selves?)
Next, recall the reaper—how nearby he approaches daily,
The sound of his scythe harvesting wheat,
Or souls, just outside your window.

Now, open your eyes and begin the soul-letting.

Rose Quartz

Next to two rose quartz hearts rot two pineapples;
(Life is the poet; I’m just the stenographer)
The quartz sits pearlescent and smooth on kitchen windowsill,
Overseeing outside’s void.
Outside the home a rose bush fails to bloom,
Insects bore through the leaves’ bounty,
The bush, as all in all growth, Questions whether it can ever bloom again

There is community of modern people who still practice magic;
Whether they call themselves witches, warlocks, or Wiccans,
This curious group meddles with the beyond,
And speculates on the nature of their craft.

Rather than be associated with sleight of hand or other such prestidigitation,
They eschew the spelling “magic” opting for “Magick”;
Rather than claiming the influence over reality,
They claim the influence over probability.

Purveyors of the crystal faith,
The clear quartz chakra aligners, the sapphire wisdom seekers,
Claim rose quartz can foster and repair a couples’ love,
But what heals the couple, the charm or the magician?

I meditate with heart shaped rose quartz in hand,
Focusing whatever energy I have remaining from my exhaustion into the stone;
I’m not a witch nor warlock, and couldn’t be said to know much of anything,
But still, I meditate with heart shaped rose quartz in hand.

Witches who speculate on the nature of their magick know this fact:
It is never the object that asserts the power,
It is the will and power of the caster themselves.

I meditate with heart shaped rose quartz in hand,
Because it is as much my intent than any perceived magic that matters,
Beyond belief of the practice, I place my intention in the stone,
Because at least then then, there’s hope.


You would want me gone,
He who wages the quiet rebellion.
I am a gadfly preventing your sleep,
Your willful, crystalline ignorance
And you will laugh
as I decrease in size,
Fading into ether,
Assured some god responded
To your nescience.
And I will laugh, too,
As I decrease in size,
To become the atoms composing you