The Rabbit spread three cards on the table before them.
3 of Cups Knight of Swords The Moon (so arrogant)
Maria Sabina's saint children gathered around the table talking quietly and joking
among themselves while Terrance rocked back in his chair stroked his chin thoughtfully
and said to André I like your stories, mon frère and André began to chant a mysterious
little ditty about sweet peas in the springtime and girls with long golden legs.
The become dream becomes vision;
the become vision becomes poetry;
the become poetry becomes the sacred acts.
The spoken silent maneuvers a woven knowing about how to honor the dead and nourish cracked hearts.
Maria Sabina builds and breaks these laws:
One of Similarity, one of Contagion.
Maria Sabina cooks up the words
the smoothing song words the cooling song words the laughing song words the brave song words
the song words of white flowers in the bath and delicious candies to sweeten our skins.
Into the palm of my hand, I place a glance. My freckles, my grimace, holy panic, steaming profanity glorious resolve to see myself etched in the cosmos just as I carve myself into the lines of my palm.
Gary Snyder busts through the door shouting:
what is the name of your water
what is the name of your mountain
Then this other guy, some dude, saddles up to the bar, wraps his fingers around a whisky glass, says to no one in particular:
Magic? Many try it. Few do it well. No one knows why.
The cards went flying around the room, candlelight shot into the night. Scorpion and crayfish scampered back.
The poets, the healers, and the ones who toy with language fill the room. The muse knows. The muse listens. But are the poets listening, after all?