Song for a sick child I ____ The white, horned creature 
follows me without sound
 Down anti septic
 corridors
 Of white washed walls There’s a Sharp scent of medicine 
In this halogen haven 
Heart machines beeping
, respirators sighing Nurses walk past us 
But we are never seen
 But some of them can feel us 
Those who are keen Do the doctors here believe in ghosts and otherworldly things?
 Or Is it all just
 living and dead
 with illness in between? There are no such thing as ghosts they say
 To little sick children in the day I smell wounds wrapped clean 
I hear fathers weeping 
Lullabies tickling the air 
Colorful toys
 hanging
 Feeding tubes in babies 
Hole in hearts
 Vials of rare and precious blood And I hunger… I hunger
 for deep disease 
I hunger for poison in the veins 
I long to drink from sickness and pain
 To steal such things away 
From the children who have come here to stay These halls are quieter tonight
 A light and peaceful sleeping 
It is good, 
It is good 
It is rare  to hear so little crying
 Perhaps, the white creature is doing its work. I stop and stare at a painting
 Red and yellow balloons in the sky
 The reaper In clowns clothing
 And He stares,
 He stares at me
 Big red nose
, a girl hugging his knees “Not today,”
I tell him
 Not today. I float through 
the visitors room
 The terminal ward is busy 
Colors brighter on the wall
 The puppets here are silly
 I look around
, I see no clowns It is good It is good Not tonight,
I pray
 Not tonight. The colors, here are winning. 
Angels, fairies, unicorns 
Busy with their bidding 
The Light, is active tonight 
A good day for saving. A good day for healing We wander down
more corridors
 Then I pause
, nostalgia, the cause 
For I hear 
that old song Somewhere down these halls
 A girl is singing
 softly in her dreams She calls to us gently
 She knows We are here
 The ones 
from the other sphere
 Of spirit carnivals
, Of dreamtime poetry We seek The girl
 with special agony I move through the walls
 A deep shadow growing
 As I fade into view 
in her room. There, I find her waking 
Frail and sinking
 Her little eyes shining 
in the dark like a cat 
She, who is not afraid of death 
She, who is not afraid of me 
She smiles
 as I stand by her bed.
 Two living spirits 
In different densities I smell her disease And I hunger I hunger
 to set her free In a breath 
born from fatigue
 she whispers
“You are the man from the circus.”
 I nod.
 She smiles broadly 
and I tell her, “you sing the song of my daughter. ”
She turns sad 
for she learnt my myth from her dream
 And she says 
In her small quiet way “When did the clown take her?” I touch her cheek with a bloodless hand and say “Long ago, before your great grandma was born.” “Will the clown come and get me too?” “Oh, no, my sweet.
Not tonight
, not tonight” “But you look like a clown!” she says, “You are sad, your skin is white, your makeup is black, and you have no hair! Just Like me. Are you sick too?” “No. Not yet my sweet, but soon, soon I will be but that’s ok. You’ll see. You’ll see.” I touch her face, to purge her fever 
I let my tear drop
fall to the floor
 To call the creature from its lore The tiny splash 
Creates a flash 
Not too blinding 
Not too bright
 Nothing scary 
to bring her fright
 Then through that light
 The afterglow
 Trots the unicorn 
White as snow 
A light blue horn
 and playful eyes 
A pool of stars
 Genteel and wise Oh how 
the little girl is amazed
 Face lit up, heart ablaze
 Spirits lifted
, Pain defeated “Would you like to go for a ride?” “Oh Yes please, circus man, take me to the funny land!” “Then close your eyes, my little sweet, go to sleep, this is my treat.” And as she drifts off with her friend 
I kneel to kiss her trembling hand 
I gently turn her head aside 
I close my eyes to find her plight 
Tonight, for sure, the colors win 
I sink my teeth into her skin 
And I drink deep 
Her viral fiend
 Stealing her sickness from within
 And I drink deep 
As she dreams 
of dancing cats and cartoon kings
 Of magic mice and shining things
 Of angels, fairies, rainbow songs
 Of circus men and unicorns. *** Song for a sick child II ____ The twin snakes. The Golden Wings. The Magickal Staff An illuminated symbol in the desert of being A radiant center, sending and receiving prayers and intentions and hopes Transmitting to and from the earth It is the sign of medicine but firstly the sign of Hermes, messenger of the Gods From this, divine poetry is born That potent mix of wisdom and doves Selecting voices and hands to bring power and peace through words I stand before this symbol and see her face. Hundreds of voices and pleas ascend to this central gate Overseen by the angel of healing Raphael And With a heatless fire balm, It touches my jugular and kisses the horn of the unicorn by my side “Go,” The angel said, “the blood of the child will fulfill your hunger.” Down anti septic corridors we manifest ourselves unseen The house of trauma, mansion of resuscitation Soundlessly paramedics rush by Hands pumping chests, I.V bags hung to reverse Hypos Morphine coursing through tiny veins The pulse of the sign and her face is a guide, seeking out synchronized heartbeats in search of her signal We cut through the clutter of stress and worry and confusion We pass through the hearts of healers, minds bent to the song of recovery, lights guiding the hands holding blades and needles and tablets and plasters We pass through radiation x ray rooms and ride the spectrum of ultrasound We follow the signal to her soul. Death walks through these doors. To children, it appears as a clown with a black balloon. To unrested conscience, it appears as a veiled woman, pale and grotesque. To the faithful, it appears as Christ. To mythic minds, it appears as Thanatos. To us, it is an ageless child, white and calm and faceless . “Not today,” I tell it. “The child we seek is not yours to take.” “I know,” it replies. “I have seen the sign.” I can hear the colors of her mind. We can feel the density of compassion increase. The unicorn sees the unseen light glowing from her room and bed. We look for the half sleep gate and slip in. Her body is at rest but her spirit is everywhere. Reading stories to children in their own magickal place, touching the hearts of the lonely, giving the hurting ones a reason to love again. Like a nightingale she walks the dreams, bringing comfort to the wounded, setting prisoners free. We know now why the sign was so loud, why her name is favored, why her life is marked by The Gods. "She is one of us." the unicorn said. She is a Messenger and healer. Poet and priestess. Laughter and life. Our forms converge around the edges of her bed. All the songs and words and wishes and dreams of her loved ones phased into a singularity. An uplifting polarity All the plans and codes and destinies aligned to one true and beautiful horizon. There was no need for her to see our forms. There was no need for her to watch me drink from her veins all that was not meant for her body. There was no need for her to know what was going on inside the sign. She just had to be herself. Free spirited and vibrant. Fighting the good fight. Celebrating the joy of the creative spirit. And Spreading the love that moves through her abundantly and endlessly . The Greater Sign will do its best Despite the nature of her test In the end there will be rest

The silver spoon Is shaking against black ceramic In hot coco coffee The octave of steel is changing My hand is trembling Muscles half asleep The ash falls from my stick to the keyboard I scratch the neck of my dog He licks the coffee off the spoon Yuck, he says I've had better days. I leave the house on time Creating illusion That I'm going to church on time But I sit in the library and look at girls As altar boys follow men in white to the sacrificial altar. My eye is twitching I sold my silver spoon for a dream And now I can only eat with my hands Body of Christ amen My god licks my fingers clean He scratches my back I kiss the coffee lips As I pluck ticks from the underarms of dog I squirt blood out of little grey raisin bodies Tick Tick Tick I leave the house for shopping centers There's a new species of resin toys I look for my ancestors in series three I squeeze past mothers and daughters I wonder if I'll be a father To altar boys, or buying toys for “Come here, little girl...” Let me scratch your neck. Yessss. You like it don't you? (Heavy breathing) The dream runs away with the spoon. I no longer dress in black In a white oversized sweat shirt, with weird cartoon figures Sick grey sweat pants I'm overgrown Slouching in a chair With bags of white boxes for worship Bought With coins collected in a cup And I'm lugging these things around Bulky and unforgiving Why the fuck did I take the bus? I could've walked to church But I am here And I see my father. Maybe he can bring these bags home for me But he's visiting the mud field Where a beige rabbit is doing backflips but going forward I see blood on the lips So nice and wet and red against mud yellow flesh And I'm lugging these bags around. Having found my ancestors in series two. Having found altar boys with Barbie dolls Come here little girl. I've got a God for you.

A boy curls up like a fetus Sinking into concrete floor Return to infant state A soft baby An opium pillow I recall what I saw Beige walls, a double decker bed We didn't sleep all night Smoking cheap tobacco like prisoners Listening to the jack russel make noise We heard psychedelic rock He used a ripped rubber glove Random tourniquet memories Flexing my arm to find the vein He went to jail for stealing cars I threw up, out of his window Then sank into concrete The jack russel yapping in his cage The mother yelling at the door What is that smell? Ang Hoong, ma! Ang hoon! Tobacco for prisoners. He used to steal my gold. Sold it for little straws of yellow powder. It's ok. I forgave him. We are all addicted to something. The mother sold the house. What's the point? Both sons in prison. Even Ganesha couldn't keep them out. I wonder if the brothers ate together Chained hand and foot. We listened to the doors. We cooked horse tranquilizers in my microwave oven. He left a nasty blood clot in my arm. This is the end, my beautiful friend, the end. He died two weeks after he was released. I was supposed to read his fortunes. I thought he looked like an Indian sage. Thin and lean, ready for war Rider of the storm. He left on a crystal ship and never came back. He left me with the image of the hermit Holding a lantern. A lonely man on the stairway to heaven. But i think that's his brother Who still has ten more years of ang hoon to smoke.

mixed blood colors her sunburnt body Her temple is a skinny frame That contains Ancestral lines and a faceless god Etched in the light of her soul I see my father in her eyes. I follow her closely The space between us closing with easy conversations about the plague in Egypt, the horsemen, the fishing, the wedding at Cana. She shares With me the sounds in her head An ethereal voice A secret melody Archangel quality And yes, I say, he sounds like this other being and she nods to his name, agreeing We talk about blood kin, bone drums, mantra trance And We are pleased with what the humans say That god is a DJ. I study her body More like a map than like a lover I see where she has been I knew about her grief at the open tomb on the third day. We walk and talk. I warn her about pools on the path Trapdoors to the fantastic Of way stations and signs in the skies We sidestep various satellites We Laugh quietly like music of the spheres We wander and wonder And end up at the table of the last supper One of the many in this sliver city There is crimson discharge on the floor An oily mix of red shapes and turquoise ecstasy I think of her haemoglobin Of The blood on her face when she was stoned She knows her ancestors have passed this way this is the sign, this is the day The great mother has bled where we stand I genuflect with white veil in hand I wipe up this sacred manna I feel the pulsar of stars where my stigmata used to be. The girl with the mixed blood, touches the wound on my side She Breathes knowingly The music of the spheres changes frequency "It's ok," I tell The magdalene. “This is where we hold the universe Together. One passing moment in eternity.“ I fold the white veil and keep it warm in my burning heart I tell her we must depart We've got someplace else to go She knows My wounds have spoken their secrets We visit the house of vampire mass In shadow we sit at pews made from the wood of Calvary. Tall, pale, tuxedo men passes the golden cup around The drink that's worth more than virgins and ivory I marvel at the way they could replicate my D.N.A The eldest one of them all is a teen Charcoal black skin with silver spikes in his lips Black leather jacket, sealed with the sign of kings. They are all seated and all I hear is "Her blue eyes, her blue eyes." A tall blonde in a dress of ultramarine stands up and walks down the aisle I can sense all the fangs growing I know she has snakes beneath her feet The veil grows warm at the sight of her Sex and spirit, fever and fire The great Mother facing the thirsting ones The blood from her yoni stoking the frenzy Extending her soul, succubus authority “This is my body,” she says Breast milk divinity Elixir virginity “Her blue eyes, her blue eyes” they cry Talon fingers to their faces Hearts exposed to a harmless sun The girl with the mixed blood is breathing hard Watching The Great Mother exposé her Babalonian flesh All the vampires are swaying side to side speaking in tongues of serpents The girl with the next blood is weeping Tears falling on holy ground Like music of the spheres colliding She watches the woman draw a line in the sand Both their eyes meeting Pausing in time A delicate weaving then Mary says to the magdalene “Soon, your eyes too will be blue. Soon, you too will be bleeding, with blood as pure as the blood in this cup, and they who drink from you Will live forever.”

The Influence: A Visual Narrative ________ October 4th. It's been seven days since we last saw Julia She abandoned everything Even the painting John believes she's dead. I don't know what to believe. “I could hear it in her voice,” he said. She kept going on and on in voice mail about how “The lovelies went past but we didn't know how to kill it.” Why did she sound so guilty? Why was she so scared? When the line went dead Johns heart went cold. It's been seven days since we last heard from Julia. July 26 Was Our first contact with 'the influence ' We each saw the same thing the same light Each in our own homes The same time It was the influence that chose us Claiming us With the sound of our names on its tongue We all heard the same voice We all saw the same.... thing August 8th We've been unusually sick for ten days Shivering, coughing, Unable to sleep. None of the medicine working something was swarming in our heads Our tongues were heavy Our skin blowing hot and cold Our eyes were burning Julia locked herself away in johns room. Fueled by a fever, she started painting furiously We could hear she screaming and slashing at the canvas The house went dark we boarded up the windows to keep the light out But another light crept it, slowly moving across the bare black walls Into our raw, exposed dreams some foreign, inward force compelled me to write Disconnected words Words with no meaning. Abastdor Phosphorus Anathema Trapezoid Marduk John studied my scrawling Noted the peaks and valleys “They are formulas for a cure,” he said I didn't know what I was writing “how do you know?”, I asked. the influence knows It watches us Teaches us Directs us The first dose had to be just right A mix of ink and saliva and early morning dew Warmed by the touch of an artificial sun A psychic map transmitted by blood From needle to neuron lighting up inside A mental movie supernova I didn't feel a thing. John felt ill. Something scared him and he couldn't say what. Julia said it was beautiful It made her weep and laugh and see things only she was meant to see. She disappeared into the room again and kept on painting. In silence. September 11 We drove through the night Through those desperate hours of three and four We circled temples 108 times, to lock in our orbits To understand the turn of our worlds A medieval rain spat against windscreen Wipers slashing, hypnotic. I knew something was following us I could feel its heat, hear its hum But none of the others were aware of it I sat behind john who was driving, the passenger seat turned all the way down, julia was finally asleep But she kept mumbling, “Its o.k, the world needs to know what's really coming.” “the world needs to know what's really coming.” November 3rd. Julia's been missing for more than a month. John wouldn't go home. He said the painting was darkening the house. He said he knew what Julia was afraid of. John wouldn't sleep. wouldn't eat. “The lovelies killed Julia,” he whispered, “we didn't know how to kill it.” John kept drawing The same scene over and over again. “Im sorry Julia, I'm sorry, the lovelies went past but we didn't know how to kill it.“ I don't know what to make of the image. John wouldn't go home He kept Studying that awful picture December 31 st. 2013. johns block was surrounded Sirens. Police dogs. Panic. People pointing to the skies I couldn't find John. I took the stairs up to his house It was hard to see Neighbors streaming down stairwells In working against the flow I'm hearing snippets, chatter, speculation Of black fires Unusual lights Black outs Someone died A god awful sound Babies crying Something rotting. I find johns apartment door ajar There's an eerie silence that follows evacuation Everyone else is far away except me I'm closing in I push the door open. The lights are all out But I can see the painting Hanging from the ceiling, looking back at me And I could hear Julia saying “The world needs to know what's really coming.” “The world needs to know what's (Visuals here: http://xoltinuum.wordpress.com/2014/02/11/the-influence-a-visual-narrative/)

eleven past ten The stomach is searching for a hand To push pieces of growth down my throat My spirit hungers Past the rows of mute stores I reach the false light of the yellow coffee house Where obese women push carts piled with plates Half eaten food, bent forks, slippers left under chairs Patrons, vanishing halfway Policemen speak with health fanatics Whole family dinners left untouched Chairs toppled High heels under tables Wife and hubby and autism child gone “It's the strange boy" the gymnast girl said “He made signs with chopsticks, then our food went cold Skinned animals in sauce came back to life crying for their mothers The tv is blaring There's a football match replaying since 1986 The lights on the field has gone out men, running, un aging, striking blindly beneath the old moon at open wounds, goal keepers diving in the dark Whistles blowing No one is watching except me What can we see really? In the half starlight, the stadium is slowly filling People with no shoes, wandering in confused too weak to cheer Stomachs, empty. That is where the disappeared are going That is where the strange boy took them But the cops were suddenly gone, so I could not tell them Gunshots ring out from the screen Star strikers fall in the penalty box The crowd cheers Death feeds them The crowd grows on screen While the coffee house thins More foot ware left behind... A pair of bloody shoes sit near my feet, it's hollow body still warm, it's sole burst open And I know it belongs to the falling girl Ten past eleven Ten Years past slipping back in seconds Just a block away, that's where it happened the gym bag fell first, nineteen stories followed by all that shouting and crying and struggling and climbing over the ledge, over the edge of failed romance When the hanging on to arms did not succeed And the lost lover shook herself free Free falling I am free Free falling... Life minus hope plus Mass times speed equals mess She landed on her feet They say only mad men clean up suicides Throwing white salt on beige walls to wash off yellow fat stuck in crimson cracks in concrete When you walk by barefoot Trying to learn the histories of falling girls You can still smell her insides sometimes I tighten my shoelaces I hang on to the yellow table as The bile in my belly finds a solution Death makes me hunger So I Emulate the Harvey Norman man And Order mee goreng and a coke The sweaty Indian chef with Korean actresses captured in his phone delivers my last meal A heap of orange worm like organisms release fatal fumes into my face I fork my food Fork it till it grows fat and soggy enough To slide down my throat till it touches an ocean of acid and walls of flesh where ancestors drew faces of their animal gods reminding me that the blood of the first human is still in my veins, and in the drains, and in the cracks in concrete Humanity is spilled everywhere I down the Black orbital liquid to drown out the worms I roll the roots of old earth in paper pulped from witchita trees there's a taste of wasabi in the cigarette fog of Voudon world spreads through my rivers of lung while the falling girl beneath the block watches me smoke slowly and surely I thank the deities of disappearing for not taking me to the football game For my night here is not done Leaving coins on the table, a token for memories I leave smoke to suspend Then walk towards the fated block The camera in my blue sling bag wants to feed on nocturne light again It hungers for tortured flight paths Impact craters Bloodied shoes The fallen girl says, “How can we leave if flesh is bound with salt?” “I know.” I tell her. “I know” I remove my shoes on the spot where she landed I walk backwards in time Rewriting her history Snapping, snapping without flash I give her distance This Cinderella spirit, waiting forever for midnight that finally arrives The shoe fits Breaking the spell of fantasy She picks up the pieces Her gym bag with clothes that no longer smells of her lover She walks backwards, away from the block, towards the sea with the autistic boy Falling out of love Free falling I am free Free falling