The Three Witches

I had a feeling the wood would burn once we gathered the witches and the sticks. There’s three: the witch of sex, the witch of drugs and the witch of violence. Black, blonde, red. They, in their craft, have given coal to the knights of Hinglewood—the rival—the enemy. Here, one knight held the coal in his open palms and it evolved into diamonds over a small span of minutes. The heresy was caught by the eyes of a woman in the forest and when the clerics found out, sex was made illegal, drugs were turned to poison and violence...violence combusted. The witches were burned at the stake and with diamonds tucked in a sack, the knights embroidered shields with the pictures of blood—a helix. Then, they inserted a diamond in the handle of each weapon and their swords and axes were able to cut through any element. Their shields preserved their lives infinitely. It was hectic: the clerics and the mobs that the clerics controlled and who controlled the clerics were thrashed and smashed and cut to pieces.

The Witches in Pink

Along the witches came, comic book aura around their hands (pink) and dressed like feminine men. Their hair was medium-short length and blonde and their lips were tight but not pressed and they held back howls. The strange came through the water well in the hut and it poured out over the women chanting in craft. The “strange” was purple and red and made of spirit. First, a few pecans went into the well, then the blood of a young boy child. Pressed from the murder, they quickly covered the child’s body in hay and then threw some of it in the well. In order to keep the witches safe from burning, wood was thrown in and so was gold. They sat holding hands, chanting and rocking side to side together—in sync—when the strange brewed, bubbled and boiled in the water. It produced spirit that overwhelmed the room and the witches, inches above the ground, flew around the city spreading mayhem, killing all of the men, and the girls that joined with the witches were damned in the blood soaked town of Anufor.

Stone

I watch the houses, tangled up in rows as I drive down the street thinking of faces painted from corruption. They frown and fritter their teeth and look down on me from my mind’s palette. I put together something special today and they look on in grimaces. They spill in marshmallow bubbles about government, torture and sex—of tears and moans and screams. I pass up each house and look in like it’s their minds and see intimacy. In cold, stone faces they pass, looking back at me.

Water Running

 

For me, writing is like a leaf on a tree in autumn—a leaf by a creek. The creek might open into a river or even mouth into the great ocean, but as we know, it might not. Literature starts as a leaf on a tree by a creek in autumn, and the clear wind blows and rocks the leaf from its foundation and it falls. It might swirl or toss, but it might just fall lazily into the creek where it has to be and glide downstream—left, right or straight—but always gliding. It sees the life around it change and shape and stay the same. It spins, or maybe not, but it makes its way to the end in the water and stops or flows on.

Asleep in the Grass

I have a feeling that the night is going to be young and I’m sipping red wine. It chimes as we cheer and we pass around a bowl of “cherub”. It’s an organic spin-off of nyope (nī-ō-pē), an epidemic in Africa. They roll ganja, heroin and crushed HIV meds together in a joint and smoke. I like to use opium, marijuana and Bufo Alvarius venom in a bubble bong. It’s safer and it gets you high; It gets you low; It gets you left, right and upside down. On a graph, with the axis x, y and z, we would create a moldy bubble like the mushrooms kids kick around. Suddenly you’re high and the wine is hard to reach. You want to drink, the flavor and smell is inviting, but you have to burst your bubble. Sometimes you just get too high, and the orange night with the TV on and with the rag laid out, the pier lit up with mosquito tiki burners, the wine bottles half finished, just has to end early.