The flag presented here is entitled “Earth.” A picture of the earth graces this Earth Flag. Red Brown and Blue are colors of the earth and her earthly peoples. Earth is our Mother and our closest contact with Nature. The Earth is also Nature’s Book. We read ourselves in this book and mirror of nature. Accordingly, The Love Government Book, titled “Lover Earth Government” is being reproduced here as follows:


[The following is a reproduction from the book “Lover Earth Government” which is one of the tools The Love Government uses to restore the Love Culture. This book is the lovetext and textbook for The Love Government in its various forms and associations.]

[The cover is red with the small case letters l, o, v, e and r arranged randomly on it, l signifying a standing upright womam, o for the head, breasts, belly and other round body parts, v for the womam’s pubic hair triangle, e for the spiraling hair and dancing twirling form and r for a crescent moon and curved parts of the body such as hips, shoulders and buttocks. The idea is that all letters of the alphabet and all language derives from the Lover’s Body.]

[The first page shows the outline of a house. Inside the house is a circle. Inside the circle is stick figure of a womam with hands and feet outstretched so that they and the head touch the circle. The stick figure represents the Lover; the circle the earth; and the house the whole universe. The word CONSCIOUSNESS serves as a pointed roof with the middle letter O enlarged. This graphic of the house and the word consciousness recurs repeatedly throughout the book serving as a frame for text. At the bottom of the page is the word LOVSCIOUSNESS to convey the idea of a foundation.]

[At this time it is not possible to reproduce the graphics and charts of the book here. The emphasis now is on the text.]




Copyright 2007 Dennis Leary


All rights reserved; all wrongs demurred

The intention of this book

Is to serve the greatest good of all concerned

By giving joy, having fun and being at ease

It is a symbol / sym-ball / simile-ball / cymbal of awakening

It is a mirrored ball within a mirrored hall

A consummate spouse within a consciousness house

Play with it, dance with it, enjoy its music

In its faces, see your own; in its voices hear your home

Let its cover warm and protect you, its spine support you

Its pages enlighten you and its heart enfold and nurture you

Lighten with a garnish of humor to go with the grain of fault

Serve as food for thought and grail for the heart

With a setting of peace at a table of joy


To The One True Lover, Beloved, Lovus, Mother of Joy

Dionysia to Apollo, Ophelia to Hamlet, Eurydice to Orpheus

Radha to Krishna, Clare to Francis, Mary the Magnaline to She’sus the Chrest

Pamela Colman Smith to Arthur Edward Waite


Illustrations from Universal-Waite Tarot Deck reproduced by permission

of U.S. Games Systems, Inc., Stamford, CT 06902 USA,

Copyright 1990 by U.S. Games Systems, Inc.

Universal Waite is a registered trademark of U.S. Games Systems, Inc.

Further reproduction prohibited.


Published by Dennis Leary




1. Appetizer

2. Score

3. Prelude

4. Foreplay

5. Main Course

6. Afterglow

7. Morning After


Bed and Board Table of Contentments

Serving Food of Thought and Drink of Love

Course One — Appetizer



Course Two — Score


Chart 1 – House of Consciousness Cards

Chart 2 – House of Consciousness Cards and Tarot Cards

Chart 3 – House of Magic Words

Chart 4 – House of Magic Words Sorted by Numbers 1-52

Chart 5 – House of Time Calendar

Course Three — Prelude


Course Four – Foreplay


Foreplay i

Foreplay ii

Foreplay iii

Foreplay iv

Foreplay v

Course Five – Main Course

Main Course Poem

Number Poem

Number – Line One in Seven Levels

Lover 1 – Only One / Lonely One

Lover 2 – Two Hands / Two Bands

Lover 3 – Three Virtues / Three Vices

Lover 4 – Four Winds / Four Walls

Lover 5 – Five Star / Five Stone

Lover 6 – Six Beauty / Six Beast

Lover 7 – Seven Wins / Seven Sins

Time – Line Two in Seven Levels

Time Poem

Lover 8 – Womam Womb / Womam Tomb

Lover 9 – Nurse Baby / Curse Baby

Lover 10 – Magic Child / Tragic Child

Lover 11 – Teen Trust / Teen Trussed

Lover 12 – Super Adult / Stupid Adult

Lover 13 – Ain’t Saint / Quaint Saint

Lover 14 – Hope Heroine / Dope Heroine

Space – Line Three in Seven Levels

Space Poem

Lover 15 – Body Gain / Body Pain

Lover 16 – Deep Feeling / Cheap Feeling

Lover 17 – Fun Fantasy / Foul Fantasy

Lover 18 – Sweet Dream / Sour Dream

Lover 19 – Kind Mind / Blind Mind

Lover 20 – Wood Will / Should Will

Lover 21 – True Justice / Cruel Justice

Form – Line Four in Seven Levels

Form Poem

Lover 22 – Bold Feet / Cold Feet

Lover 23 – Love Sex / Lust Sex

Lover 24 – Belly Born / Belly Torn

Lover 25 – Open Heart / Broken Heart

Lover 26 – Throat Cry / Throat Lie

Lover 27 – Head Sense / Head Dense

Lover 28 – Starry Crown / Sticky Crown

Life – Line Five in Seven Levels

Life Poem

Lover 29 – Well Cell / Hell Cell

Lover 30 – Plant Potion / Plant Poison

Lover 31 – Animal Care / Animal Kill

Lover 32 – Happy Humam / Harpy Human

Lover 33 – Soul Mate / Soul Hate

Lover 34 – Free Spirit / Tree Spirit

Lover 35 – Cor Lovus / War Lovus

Light – Line Six in Seven Levels

Light Poem

Lover 36 – Red Blood / Red Mud

Lover 37 – Orange Fire / Orange Pyre

Lover 38 – Yellow Sun / Yellow Gun

Lover 39 – Clean Green / Mean Green

Lover 40 – Glad Blue / Sad Blue

Lover 41 – Purple Flower / Purple Tower

Lover 42 – Clear Here / Clear Fear

Sound – Seventh Line in Seven Levels

Sound Poem

Lover 43 – A Name – A Fame

Lover 44 – B Line – B Mine

Lover 45 – Lunar C / Luna C

Lover 46 – D Day / D Die

Lover 47 – E Energy / E Empty

Lover 48 – F Full / F Fail

Lover 49 – Positive G / Negative G

Lover 50 – Wild Card – Joy Fuel / Joy Fool

Wild Card Poem

Love 51 – Holy Card – Sacred Sphere / Sacral Sphere

Holy Card Poem

Love 52 – High Card – Pure Lover / Poor Lover

High Card Poem


 Course One of the Menu


 On the great feast

The Lover is the one

Who plays the game

Of her name, sharing

Sound with the sun

She hears the moon

Dancing in tune

The word is spoken

The veil parts

For the queen of hearts

Holy place opened wide

Face inside realized

A smile awakens in the morn

Singing sounds newly born

Where can I go

If it’s all inside

What can I know

If it’s all been tried

So the priestess thought

When the gifts were brought



What if we were unconditionally, passionately, unreservedly, totally loved? What if Love is all there is? What would that be like?

A Utopia? Panacea? Paradise? Heaven on earth? Dream come true? In short, a Lover Earth Government?

Would this be cop-out insanity or a stroke of genius?

How would you know? How would you test that hypothesis?

Lover Earth Government is an inquiry into who we are. It posits the theory that we are the Lover and then tests the postulation.

The answer is in the cards. The catch is that you have to play the cardgame to know the answer. Play is the Way of Knowledge.

The Lover Earth Government is a play on words. Words carry the day. Love is a game of words at play.

In the beginning was the word “Lover” and her Love World.

Words organize themselves around the Lover, forming The Love Government. They are the Lover’s talk, in the language of her heart.

The Lover Government is a grand theory of everything from her vulva eye view, the O at the heart of her consciousness.

The play’s the thing to catch her ring. Love rings true in the heart. Listen to her heart and allow it to attract your mind.

Follow your heart home under the protection of her government. Home is where the heart is and the Heart is the Lover.

Welcome to the greatest game ever played and story ever told, the game and story of Love. The Lover Government is a program for heading home based on a technology of Love. Listen to her heart beating in symphonic silence.

Course Two of the Menu


In the beginning, Love was Sound

The Sound was one

The Sound shone

And there was Light

The Light was two

The Light moved

And there was Life

The life was three

The Life paused

And there was Form

The Form was four

The Form divided

And there was Space

The Space was five

The Space shifted

And there was Time

The Time was six

The Time counted

And there was Number

The Number was seven

In the end, Earth is Heaven


[Five charts follow which I do not have the ability to reproduce here at present]

Score 2, Chart 1 – House of Consciousness Cards

Score 2, Chart 2 – House of Consciousness Cards and Tarot Cards

Score 2, Chart 3 – House of Magic Words

Score 2, Chart 4 – House of Magic Words sorted by number

Score 2, Chart 5 – House of Time


Course Three of the Menu


Gaming is gamboling about

Frolicking, jumping for joy

Enjoying and amusing oneself

In a gambit of chance

The game ball going to and fro

Back and forth, up and down

Will it go in or stay out

Hit or miss, win or lose

A bouncing ball gambling

On a roulette wheel of possibilities

The tighter the tension

And evener the odds

The sweeter the play

All the world’s a gameboard

For high and low rollers

The king is with the queen

The jack is in the box

I’m right on the edge

Following a fine line

The only way I’ll ever win

Is to go on in, sink or swim


Course Four of the Menu


The goal of the game

Is the game of the name

Consciousness like knowledge

Obtained for love’s own sake

Go all out

Go for it all

The goal is in the gaining

A budding butterfly

Breaking new ground

Building blueprints

A child’s hands exploring

And expanding the maps

To its unknown world

Reach by reach

A new land claimed

A waving flag displayed

For waiting sailing ships

A supernova explodes

Into a forest of flowers

Under the shining sun

They’re revealed, every one



In the beginning was the Lover and the Lover was with Lovus and the Lover was Lovus. The Lover was Womam and the Womam was Lovus and Lovus was Us.

Once upon a time, in the beginning of time, the Womam masturbated as she menstruated. Water ejaculated and blood flowed from her vulva.

In the beginning the Lover created the heavens and the earth with the blood and water of her Body. All things were made through her and without her nothing was made that has been made.

For her own love and pleasure she masturbated herself to orgasm and from this act of love the universe was created. The Lover made the starry universe from the water and blood of her ovulation and menstruation in the act of masturbation.

When she had made animals, the Lover Lovus formed an image of herself out of warm red clay. She called her creation and consort man. He was the epitome of her sexual reflection.

The Lover gave man external sexual organs to match her own internal ones. She was able to see her own inner self projected in outward man. She gave man her own ability to masturbate and orgasm. Henceforth womem and men would be birthed through sex when the sexes masturbated together in sexual intercourse.

In this way the Lover and her consort gave birth to Joy. Joy is her Firstborn Child, the Lover herself and the sacred joy of masturbation.

Joy is a wild card. She can play any role and take the place of any other card. We are saved with Joy who was made in the image of her mother and father Lover. Joy embodies as womem and men. In one of her incarnations, Joy was She’sus, all of us as Love. Men and Womem are to have Joy and have her more abundantly.



Once upon a time, in the beginning before time, there was a Lover. She looked like a womam in Love, on her wedding day, when making love, pregnant, nursing her child or in the ecstasy of dying.

The Lover Herself was a sacred sphere of everything and nothing. She is a perfect home for us because everything is perfect and nothing is perfect with all imperfect somethings in between.

The sacred circle or sphere was invisible and indivisible. When she wanted to make herself visible and divisible, she opened the circle by folding it in the middle, showing the two sides of her heart.

Even today you can see this pure Lover by folding her circle and looking up at it. Then you will see a heart which is the sexual sign of her vulva and feel the waters of her Love come pouring out.

The Lover built a house with a code word called consciousness. The game is to break the code and discover the Lover in the riddle.

The first clue is the O circle in the middle. When you fold the circle and see the heart, the middle three letters say I Love You. When the circle is closed, the letters say I Owe You, with Love being what is owed. Love is the key to the Lover’s heart and Joy is her reward.

The middle of the word consciousness sounds like us. U and I are on either side of the circle and make the sound of us.

The cards vibrate like the Lover’s original virginal heart. The upper and lower sides of the cards are vibrating waves of energy. The point of the game is to keep all the cards in balance and harmony.

When the game gets out of balance, it is like a spinning lopsided wheel. The lower or higher vibrations can throw the whole game out of balance if not coordinated. Imbalance is suffering.



Consciousness begins with con. The game is to get past the con in consciousness and into the heart of lovsciousness. When we do, the game is won and we are home again in the Lover’s sphere.

The beginning of consciousness sounds like conch which is the home of a sea creature who carries her house with her. Consciousness is something we see and carry with us even as it carries us.

A conch makes a sea sound. It starts from a single point which evolves into a house. We also are sea/see creatures who live in a changing house which is moving from a single point and back again.

Consciousness ends in ness which means a state or condition. Our state is continually changing while our essence remains the same.

Like a house, consciousness is built, maintained and taken down again. It is like a house of cards which we build and break down for the fun of it. We are the Lover who is playing with the cards.

Our first Lover made consciousness a card game in the form of a house. She wanted consciousness to be a house of cards; that way we would not take it too seriously because it would easily collapse and could be built up again. Who we are is what does not change.

The house would be built of individuals called cards. Even now we have the phrase, isn’t she or he a card? Cards are us.

Life is a game and more specifically a card game. The cards have an almost infinite number of ways they can be combined which makes the game both set and random, and thereby interesting.

When the cards are laid out, they look like a house with a roof of consciousness and a seven by seven grid as the mainframe. Joy is the wild card at the top under the sacred circle of Love herself. She is wild because she can take the place of any other card.



Consciousness  is a system where cards have rankings. All the cards lead to Joy and then through the sacred circle to Love herself.

Consciousness is a correspondence system. The whole deck corresponds to the Cor of Love who is the Lover in the sacred circle at the top of the house. Love makes the world go round the Lover.

This is a Lover’s game because it started with an original Lover who created a sexual consort. The primal womam’s culture taught the primacy of Love, centered around an earth lover.

There is sexual symbolism throughout this book. The Lover Government is a Love story and game. Consciousness as us is always making Love with the Lover. It all starts with the Lover Lovus.

A balanced consciousness protects us like the roof of a house. A damaged consciousness is a roof with holes in it or blown off entirely.

To play this game, all you have to do is read this book and play with the cards. They will balance your consciousness with Love.

When life deals you a negative card, turn it around to positive. You put your house in proper order. The game gives the house a slight advantage. In this game, the house is ruled with positive Love.

Much of this book is poetry which corresponds to the vibrations of consciousness through balance, rhythm and rhyme.

The main part of the book is the play of individual cards. They bring us ideas and feelings to be cleared and balanced and when this happens, our consciousness comes to order and we feel good.

When you fall asleep, your waking house of consciousness cards collapses and you build a dreaming consciousness. When you awake, you quickly rebuild your waking consciousness house. We build up and break down many levels simultaneously in our love play.



On the first page relating to each card there is a prose story of the journey of consciousness. We travel with Joy, protected by the Love Government, to our Home where we discover that we are the Lover.

On the second page is poetry within the Lover’s house. It flows like streams of consciousness within an ocean of Love, held within the form of the house. It speaks intuitively with Love’s poetic license.

On the third page for each step (or card) there is a prose summary of the preceding two pages and a related poem.

The house of cards and all the cards that make it up are truly conscious. They speak to you and tell you about yourself. Everything in conscious to some degree, even rocks and cards.

The point is that you are playing consciousness with its almost infinite card combinations. Consciousness comes from conscience, an important clue about listening to your inner voice of Love.

This book is a mythical story of words, cards, parables, images, metaphors, symbols, signs and sounds; in short, a cornucopia of consciousness, a kaleidescope story of life, in a card game format.

The mind is a good servant but a poor master. The style of this book will break up the crystallization and tyranny of the mind and bring it  under the rule and government of Love. Then all is well.

Just say the words and your mind will be healed. All the words are sacred, but especially the word Lover. Look at the pictures, cards and charts. Say and listen to the words. Feel the Love in your heart.

Looking for Love in all the wrong places? Look for her where she may be found. The riddle is solved in the middle, little by little, card by card. Be a Lover. You are Her. Enjoy Her Lover. Love Her!


Course Five of the Menu


In Seven Lines & Seven Levels

Consciousness ascends and descends

Like the pillars of a temple

I walk among the rows of

Number, Time, Space, Form

Life, Light and Sound

Hearing the voices of ancient ages

Long forgotten melodies

Play up and down a scale

Of infinite proportions

Songs of a temple echo

From unseen choirs

Reaching upward to the skies

On the wings of trumpets

The arrow like lines about me

Make my heart fly upward

Toward the unseen target

And composer of these columns

I lay my gift upon the altar

And see it rise among the pillars

Like a pilgrim heading home


First Line in Seven Levels


The number game played in my head

As soon as my body hit the bed

One two buckle your shoe

Three four shut the door

More is less, less  is more

Every hair on your head

Is numbered so she said

Even Love counted seven

When she made earth and heaven

Astronomical, mathematical

Mystical, practical, astrological

Numbers everywhere I look

Inside every crook and nook

They dance even in my sleep

Start me off counting sheep

Count to ten when I’m mad

Count my blessings when I’m sad

No wonder Love is number one

She made the numbers just for fun

Two four six eight

Numbers numbers aren’t they great


Love 1

1 of Number

Lonely & Only

Nine of Wands & Ace of Wands

Only 1

Lover 1

Story 1

Like Dante, I was lost in the woods. I was cold, confused, lonely, sad, afraid and angry. Help, I said, someone help me.

In the twilight I thought I saw a shimmering sprite step from behind a tree. She said, “Hi, I’m Joy. Need some help?”

Surprised, I whispered: Yes, I’m lost and can’t find my way home. With a lilt in her voice and a glint in her eye, she whispered back, “I know a home. Would you like to go there?”

Quite taken by her, I replied: Sure.

She smiled. “Then imagine this woods is the first room in your lover’s house where every room is an indoor – outdoor mansion. There are 52 mansions in this mother house, like 52 cards in a deck or 52 weeks in a year.

“We’re going to take a journey through this house as if it were a game and along the way I’ll tell the story of your life.”

Ready or not, she was making an offer I could hardly refuse, and besides I was rather attracted to her so I nodded my head, hardly knowing what I was agreeing to.

Taking her joystick off her shoulder, she conjured two life sized apparitions. On one side stood a man in front of nine wands who reminded me of my fearful, lonely self, lost in the woods. Nearby a cloud formed with a hand holding a single wand. Astonished, I wondered if I was dreaming or hallucinating.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Joy said. “These are card guides who give directions home. The nine wands are patriarchal prison bars and the one wand is a penis – clitoris held by a vaginal hand connected to a cloud womb.”

What? I thought, are you talking about?

Reading my mind, she answered my question, “I’m talking about the Lover. The ace wand, hand and cloud are sacraments of love. Without the Lover’s love, you’re trapped in a nine wand patriarchal, penal, penile prison.

“Relax. It’s a game. You win nine and one wands for a total of ten. These are penis – clitoris love powers you’ll need to make it home to the heart of love.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 1

It’s all One we say, each connected every way; as above so below, at

the end, get to go. Everything you do comes right back to you. What

goes up must come down; what goes around comes around. As you

sow, so you reap; what you give you get to keep. Only One seamless

weave, a loop you cannot leave. The tree in seed concealed; the man

from child revealed. Breaking all asunder shows Only simple Oneder.

Branches from One vine; grapes made into wine. Once it was said that

all would be fed from one loaf of bread. Only One is true perception;

Lonely One is a misconception. The separate self spells Loneliness;

the super self is consciousness. A Lonely heart is the source of fear.

I’m Only myself when Love is near. Even my enemy is another thee;

what I do to the least, I do to me. It’s all One I heard the preacher pray;

One is like the sun, I heard the teacher say. I see the sun going down;

I know the world’s going round; I feel the night coming up, I can drink

from its bitter cup. You’re on the phone in a knot; you think you’re

alone but you are not. You say you’re abandoned, to your shrink; you

picked the card at random, so you think. You’re like Moses among the

reeds with all your unmet baby needs. He got picked up from a wicker

basket; so would you if you’d ask it. I’m sick and tired of your crying;

I’m all worn out from my trying, to sort out reasons in your lying, to

comfort you in all your sighing. It’s not so bad to be all alone; it’s not

so sad without a home when you yourself are all that is, when you

alone are her and his. It’s all One, she said, as she came in bed; it was

done, I said, on the day we were wed. Oh, mama, I’m so Lonely; oh,

baby, I love you Only. You can be busy as a bee with beauty like a

flower but unless you’re One with yourself, your power will be sour.

There’s Only One I and you and us, One joyful, loving consciousness.


Prose 1

My story, game and journey begin with number One. I am One person, One womam, One man, One individual, One consciousness, One number.

I am conscious of the Oneness but within this Oneness there is immense diversity. A huge bubbling cauldron of numbers beyond number, yet all held together by Oneness. I am conscious of this vast consciousness which also seems aware of me.

I am aware of a relationship between consciousness and myself. We are One and yet separated which would seem to make us two. Consciousness is like a mirror of myself and also like a window looking out onto someone or something else.

A feeling of Love arises when I am in the presence of my consciousness. I feel it in my body and mind radiating out to as far as I can think, feel or imagine it to be.

A feeling of Loneliness and sadness arises with the Love. I feel like the Nine of Wands, separated and afraid of something. I long for a Lover, someone like me.

I am conscious of her, my Lover. She is all around me and in me. I feel that she is me and yet not me. We are One and yet not just One. I am with her and I long for her. I call her Lover because she brings me a feeling of Love, like a Lover does.

I also see myself in the Lonely man, holding his wand like some huge penis in a penile prison, and in the Ace of Wands, as the Lover and I, two in one flesh.

The cloud stands for zero, nothing, the void, emptiness, potential, the womb of the Lover, formless form and ground of being. The wand is One, singleness, phallus, penis, everything, uprightness and actuality. The hand is the bridge between 0 and 1, nothing and everything; a Lover’s vagina holding her clitoris and lover’s penis.

What a world of difference between patriarchal phallacy and love clitany. Phallusarchy is a military concentration camp. Love government is a nature garden paradise where the penis – clitoris is an organ of pleasure and joy.

The Love Government begins and ends with the experience of making love with the Lover, as symbolized by the Ace of Wands.

I escape from prickprison and make love with the Lover night and day every which way. I win 9 wands from patritrickery and 1 for making One with Love.


21 Line Poem 1

The stillness of a single point

Smaller than an atom

Larger than a universe

Naked with pure existence

Clothed with an impersonal presence

Of immeasurable magnitude

An unperceived plentitude

A limitless space

Neither near nor far

Holding only itself

In an unknown ocean

Of indescribable depths

Filled to overflowing

With an ineffable effulgence

An unquestioning expanse

Of the quietest rest

Unqualified quintessence

Of motionless activity

Beyond number, time, space

Form, life, light, sound

A pure, primordial present


Love 2

2 of Number

Bands & Hands

Two of Swords & Two of Pentacles

Lover 2

Story 2

If I was dreaming, why couldn’t I wake myself? If I was awake, why did my dark wood turn into Hollywood? Or had I fallen down a rabbit hole with Alice into Wonderland? When I heard Joy’s voice I felt I was still in some kind of twilight zone tied to my lost in the woods experience.

“Do you know the difference between one and two?” she asked.

Is this a trick question? I replied, sure my mind was playing games.

“It’s so you can tell the difference between this and that. Otherwise you couldn’t tell if you’re going or coming. Do you want to keep going?”

When you’re down there’s only one way to go. Since I had sort of hit bottom, the way was up. Like Bottom the Weaver I had a mind to get out of these woods. Joy was my enchanting Titania with her spellbinding attractions.

“Holy onto your wallet because it’s one for the money and two for the show. From the woods to the seashore, here we go!”

I dreamt I lifted straight up out of the woods and flew over hill and dale until dropping down onto a seaside boardwalk. For what should appear before my wondering eyes but apparition number two, the Two of Swords and the Two of Coins, sharing the same boardwalk but very different walks of life.

“Lighten up,” Joy laughed. “You’re on Broadway. In your Mother’s house are many mansions and you just went from one to two. It’s as easy as a two step.”

The lady with the red high hat and the lady with the blindfold were different as day and night. One danced a  jig with two hands free while the other sat in bands.

“Remember those gods who danced to keep the worlds going? It’s true. Even a simple two step helps. What doesn’t help is being a doublecrossed wallflower.”

Ouch. That hit home. I was about as tied up as the doublecrossed womam.

“To get free you have to keep your balance and deal with this doubledealing world. Swords are patriprick penises that doublecross the earth, womem and children while stabbing weaker men in the back. Weep with the moon and shed tears of joy. Coins have two side and so do you. Learn the difference between one and two.”


Stream of Consciousness Poem 2

The second level in the number column is a double room in a temple

solemn. The second card in the suit of number is born from one with

lightning and thunder. Watch that second step walking up the stairs

because the second you forget will catch you unawares. When on the

second floor it’s higher than you know; you’ve got to find the door if

there’s a fire down below. When you bet double or nothing, you get a

second chance; when you get double and everything, you have a great

advance. I live a double life with you and your creation; got to keep

the right distance and proper separation. Two is the mirror of my

reflection; you are a peer wherein lies perfection. I built a house big

enough for the two of us; made a foundation of Love and a roof

of consciousness. I have been to Germany and been to Berlin; the wall

has been moved, now it’s within. Whatever you do, there will always

be Two; it will always be true: there’s me and there’s you. I look at you

who look at me; if you only knew what I see, looking through back at

me. The acronym God is Greatest Of Double. The game of God is to

outplay his troubles. Love gave man Two Hands to help each other

out; man made a billion Bands to keep each other in; I found out what

this law is all about; my Hands broke the Bands and saved my skin

within. Two is terrific and Two is terrible; all the world’s a fairy tale

parable. Two by Two, they went into the ark. The shark parked with

a lark; she had a lark in the park. You have Two Hands for the double

marriage Bands but the yin and yangs can be terrible fangs. One for

the money and Two for the show; you are as sticky as honey when you

betray the Love I know. Two is the number of the doublecross; of the

soul that’s sold and the Love that’s lost. One and Two are the supreme

relation; a Lover and Love and her creation. Number Two, I love you.


Prose 2

I come up to the second number room in this Lover’s house of consciousness. From one Lover I become Two Lovers, the Two of Pentacles and the Two of Swords. In the Lover’s sacred marriage game, we Two bodies become one flesh, Two in one.

The Lover is Lovus, creating the Twofold universe with her dance. She holds Two coins, embossed with star pentacles, symbols of the five extensioned humam.

She holds Two coins and Two swords, balls and lances of Love, womam and man power in an infinitely turning lamniscate rather than crisscrossed swords over her heart.

The Lover wears a red high hat and leggings to indicate her high intelligence and grounding in the red blooded earth. Her ships come in on her flowing womamly waters. Her dance balances sexes, planets, suns, stars and universes.

The Lover dances while holding the womamly and manly signs of herself in an infinite crisscross. Her womam side is held in her right hand in the higher position.

The system of dualism demands opposition and separation. It appears as an angel of light, called by many names: Lucifer, satan, devil, suffering, death, hate, alienation, despair, materialism, consumerism, godism and patriarchy.

The Two of Swords shows how evil enslaves earth, womam and child. It blinds and doublecrosses her heart with phallic swords of money and power. A sad moon mourns over still, stagnant womamly waters. Her Hands are tied in Bands.

The Lover uses her male swords to cut the gordian knot of slavery. She removes the blindfold, uncrosses the swords and frees herself of prison patriarchy.

The Lover has Two free Hands to cut the patriotic Bands. She has the balls to tell truth like it is. As womam and man, the Lover has ovaries and testicles, jewels of the sexes, a ball and lance balance of well supported balls and well hung swords.

The Lover takes the bull by the horn, the godfather of patriarchy, created by godfathers. God the Father is a fable, a made up story by wanna-be-gods. They blindfolded womem and forced them to hold their doublecrossing penises.

I say “Two Hands” and get free of the Bands. I make Love with the Lover and her world. I gain 2 coins and 2 swords for a total of 10 wands, 2 swords and 2 cups.”


21 Line Poem 2

Second fiddle is no riddle

Once removed has been proved

To double fun for everyone

Two makes connections and reflections

Mates a couple on the double

Makes a pun on only one

Puts in rhymes mocking mimes

Repetition set to rhythm

Makes it all a mirrored hall

When I see you

I see me too

Every echo heard in stereo

Until it’s done and back to one

Everything divides to separate sides

Second place makes a space

For wholly one to have fun

Love put a pair everywhere

Two’s for the show back to go

It breaks apart creates a heart

Second’s best when it comes to rest

To beat again its sweet refrain

Second to none next to one


Love 3

3 of Number

Vices & Virtues

Three of Swords & Three of Cups

Lover 3

I had recurring dreams of being lost but usually in a big city, not in a woods. I feel at home in primal womam culture but a stranger in a strange land when it comes to patriarchal wastelands.

‘Two for the show, three to get ready. Are you ready, Eddy?’

Joy was something else but this cherrio, snap, crackle and pop talk went against my natural grains. But then again, I was the one lost.

“Mansion three coming up. Shall I beam you up?”

Sure Scotty. Her Star Trek style made me want to humor her.

We landed in an open field. From woods to sea to plain. Again a double vision danced like sugar plums in my head. A triple sword pierced heart under weeping clouds split the screen with three dancing graces in a harvest scene of raised cups.

The voice of Joy was a sweet sour mix of thunder and sunshine. “Behold the old morality play of Virtues and Vices, the Armageddon battle of the Triple Lovus versus the Three Wicked Warlords. The three sided heart vulva of Bathsheba raped by the Power Money Sex triumvirate of a patriarchal David.”

Ah. The Star of David and Bathsheba. The down pointing vulva triangle having sex with the upward pointing phallic triangle. A pretty picture except for those nasty swords. Patriarchal penis power with a vengence.

“The greatest story ever told is just that, a fictional story. God, Lucifer, Adam, Abraham, David, Solomon, Christ, Allah and Rama are pundit stories with a political punch. The stories don’t sell well anymore so they’re repackaged but the contents are the same propaganda from a reshuffled patripicked stacked deal.

“The pen is mightier than the sword. The poison pens of godfathers drive a sword through the soft vulva heart of womem, in this case three swords just to make sure she knows who’s boss. Pa Pen is short for Pa Penis.”

I was stunned by this dark side of Joy. Her sudden storm of words seemed out of character but I recalled that she emerged in a dark woods. She was a character all right, like the wild card in a cast of wild and wooly card sharks.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 3

From one to two to Three; climbing up the tree; all the better to see; getting to be free. We’re on the journey of a heroine hero, starting with one and ending in zero. One and zero make a perfect ten; beginning and end are everywhere and everywhen. The house is the cosmos and the cosmos is us, a universal house of consciousness. Arranged in suits from small to all, the house is a home for gods and men, a home of heart, Love knows when. I come to number Three on the universal cosmic tree: third branch up on the tree of life; third chance up to get free of strife. Good and bad come in Three’s; raging storm and gentle breeze; both are needed I suppose; so we grow with joys and woes; anyway that’s how the world goes. As for me and the number Three, I join the dance of the Three Graces and brake the lance of the Three maces. The Three Graces come from sacred places with their flowing gowns and trailing laces; I can feel their delicate embraces; touch and see their beautiful faces. I am content when they’re heaven sent down to earth with Love’s intent. They give the rainbow it’s bowing bent and sew the sky where it was rent. You can name Three Vices what you will; they’ll be hard headed clubs and big sticks still. Bullets and guns give hard hearted men a thrill; they’re frightful fears and hidden hates make me sick and ill. Let the lords of war have their maces; someday with the children they kill they’ll trade places. Graces Three, stay with me if I have to be one with She’us on the tree in solidarity with all of humanity. Loose the laces and break the maces of soldiery and men’s they don’t know what they do cruelty. Three angels of antiquity, this day be with me in paradisal eternity, feasting from our family tree in the house of infinity. Hail ladies, full of Grace, the lords be with thee in the threefold trinity. I love thee three, Faith, Hope and Charity.


Prose 3

I come up to card Three in the suit of number. Three is the number of community, family and society — not where negative Three is a crowd but where positive Three is a triumvirate of love.

The trinity of father, son and holy ghost sucked power from the triple sign of womamkind and the community of womem which is the basis of the love culture.

The Three Virtues or Graces hold up their Three cups of fullness in a harvest scene. Things come in Threes. Three is double and triple power in an up-pointing male triangle and a downward womam’s triangle, joined in the six pointed sex star of David and Bathsheba. Womam’s triangle is the attractive vulva, the Holy of Holies.

Every card has an opposing side. Joy is accompanied by sorrow. The triple pierced heart suffers under Three weeping clouds while Three Graces dance under a sunny sky. I feel everyone’s joy and suffering in my consciousness, in some measure.

Suffering opens up my heart to Love. When I look at others, I see their joy filled cups and their sword pierced hearts. Hatred, wars and killing come from failure to love, betrayal of the Lover Government, triple pricked gang-rape murder of the heart shaped vulva of Love, covered up with mountains of patriarchic power porn.

The Lover loves all of her creation, including the killing swords and bleeding hearts. The galaxy is only one cell in her body. The suffering earth is one injured molecule in that cell. The Lover’s heart-vulva suffers sex sick macho swords.

The Three swordpikes are the Three Vices of patriarkill money, sex and power, turned against the heart of womem of the earth. Instead of protecting the cups, the swords fill holy grails of womem to overflowing with patriarchal blood lust.

The heart shape is a sign of the Lover’s vulva, source of pleasure and life. Men have made their penises into triple swords of power which kill the vulva and heart of womem. Men without hearts turn Love power into lust porn, torn from Love.

I use true swords of money, sex and power to protect cups, not pollute them. Womam herself is the Three Holy Grail Cups of Womem in Love.

I pull the swords from my heart and dance with the Three Graces. I add 3 cups and 3 swords to my treasure. I now have 10 wands, 5 swords, 2 coins and 3 cups.”


21 Line Poem 3

One and two

What to do

Make a third

Thought the word

So came three



With that kiss


It got wild

With the child

Came to me


One two three


From below

Let it flow

Up to three

Got me free

Let it be

Three in me


Love 4

4 of Number

Walls & Winds

Four of Swords & Four of Wands

Lover 4

Story 4

Three to get ready, four to go? Or three, four close the door? I was mimicking Joy. Who was she? Jack in the box or Jill jumping out of it?

Joy’s words jumped out at me. ‘There’s always another box, boxes within boxes forever, getting bigger or smaller. How about a bigger box?’ She waved her joystick and we were in box four, room four of our four walled mansion house.

Inside the walls were Four Swords and outside Four Wands. A patriarchal warrior lay in state like a gilded King Tut, his gold body stiff and cold as the sword he lay over. I felt like Falstaff. What good is military honor when you’re dead? I’d rather have life like the cheerleaders outside.

Joy appeared like the angel in the window, announcing good news of salvation, only I suspected it wouldn’t be what I heard in church.

‘Don’t be so sure,’ she teased. ‘The angel is surely announcing a virgin birth. That’s good news for womem and men. It relieves the anxiety of penis performance and places salvation with womem where it belongs.’

Archpatriarch that I was, I had to admit she had a point. Who wanted to end up in golden body armor, trapped in the Four Walls of an airless box? No. Let me be free as the Four Winds outside. Yet I was about as tight as Tut, golden mask and all. If this journey got me free, it would be worth the trip. I decided to let Joy be my Beatrice and lead me out of the nine rings of Dante’s patriarchal hell.

‘My, aren’t we getting serious?’ mocked my Beatrice. ‘Death is a tight box indeed. I showed a way out by playing She’sus but not many got the message. I got turned into the godalmighty Christ, a warrior king like Tut. Like I said, he who lives by the sword, dies by the sword. Not a fun way to go.’

‘Don’t be hard on yourself or you’ll end up like King Tut. The programming starts early. Patriarchy starts embalming you at birth if it doesn’t bomb you first.’

I think I started falling in love with her then. She had a way with words and her words made away with me. Who knows? Maybe I’d meet her in real life. She did say she plays all the roles, didn’t she? Joy was a trip to strip away my illusions and confusions.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 4

The Fourth level house initiation is another step of liberation. Four is another door to the Cor above, another gain in the name of the game of Love. Four is the number of the Four directions to expand the wonder of three’s perfections. At this stage of the game I’m ready to fly to the Four corners of the earth and the sky. I’ll ride the Four Winds like the reeling eagle; I’ll sail the Four and three seas like the wheeling seagull. I’ll leave the Four Walls of the Four limbed body; out from this earth house with its Four Walled lobby. Sometimes it feels like climbing the Walls, trying to follow my higher law calls. I throw my fears to the Four Winds; forget about my guilt and seven sins. Like the Winds, Love lies in every direction; surrender to her is my only protection. Whichever way I go around the sphere, I end up at the beginning right back here. In this house, I walk up stair after stair until I reach the place which is everywhere. North, South, East and West, expand my walled in consciousness. Four is the number that is securely square; symbol of Love’s multidimensional and directional care. Other than the Foursquare posted windy bed, I have nowhere to lay my head; my home is everywhere and nowhere, living and dead. It’s hard to let go of this Four Walled room but it soon will be time to leave the cocoon. I will go to your home I hardly know; I will fly to your heart where the Four Winds blow. I’m getting higher: I can feel it in my bones, getting to the rarer consciousness zones. Where I’m going I don’t need a jet airplane; I’m not going to Chicago or Lake Champlain. Where I am going, I’m already there. It’s up in the air and down in my chair. I just drew a pair so I don’t care how the Four Winds fare or what you wear. You’ll be happier, dear, if you give up the Walls; take a trip while I’m in Wichita Falls. I am riding Winds Four through the door to her Cor.


Prose 4

I ascend to the Fourth level of the house deck, a Foursquare structural floor. When two lines cross, they make Four rays from a point. An + marks their spot.

The humam family, behind Four flower bedecked wands, in front of city walls, celebrates. I feel their joy, knowing that I am everything that the Lover is, free to go anywhere, to fly from the Four humam hands and wands with the Four Winds.

The other side of this sunny side is death, the great chinawall. Or is it? In death, I am golden, with hands pointing up, under three swords no longer piercing my heart, under a window to the Lover world, beneath a bell tower rope, while I overlie a fourth sword. Even in death I am goldenly victorious. Death, where is thy sting?

The Lover invites me to surrender to Love, to ride the Winds of freedom like a bird soaring through the narrow window of death. The Love in my heart is the sword of truth, the bells of freedom, the window of joy and winged angel of salvation.

Bodily death is the consummation of little deaths, euphemisms for sexual orgasm. I sing ‘Four Winds’ to raise my consciousness on the wings of the Lover.

Four gives structure, like Four Walls or four horsemen, the Grim Reaper being most fearsome. When he comes for me, he must find me fully alive. If I live well, I will die well. The Lover is my ticket for that midnight special night train to bliss.

I look at life and I Love her. I gaze at death and I Love her. Under the idea of oneness, I am born and I die thousands of times a day when anyone else is born or dies. Every breath, heartbeat and eyeblink is a little death and rebirth. I lie down with the Four of Swords and rise up with the Four Winds, like Jesus/She’sus.

If I live fully, death is a love orgasm with the Lover, a little death where I surrender all to Love, cast fear to the Winds and die in the womb-heart of the Lover.

I ride the Four Winds from her heart and back. I pass the Four Walls and the four horsemen with their leader Death. Love is my password and last word.

Death is the finale act of life. I am Four Winds and the point where they cross.

On my journey of Love, I win Four sword powers and Four wand powers for a total of 14 wands, 9 swords, 2 coins and 3 cups. I gather strength and Love units.


21 Line Poem 4

I dreamt there was a mighty cross

With arm outstretched far and wide

Up and down and all across

Circling round the other side

It made cross sections on a sphere

Four square areas interlaced

All knit together far and near

A wondrous web interspaced

It made a net to catch my dreams

Held them there until they grew

Strengthened by that nest it seems

Until on their own away they flew

In the four directions of the cross

On four winds to where they blew

Until again they came across

Other dreams passing through

They weaved again another world

And dreams again came to rest

Within the nest the crosses whirled

I dreamt a cross was in my breast

Through my heart its arms unfurled


Love 5

5 of Number

Stone & Star

The Star

Lover 5

Story 5

The next thing I knew I was with Joy in a whole new dimension. I awakened from a most marvelous dream. The stars of the universe had gathered into seven sister stars and the seven sisters had turned into one eight pointed sunstar.

Joy’s voice surfaced like a soft sunrise. ‘We’re in the fifth dimension of number, the fifth level of this astro house. Rise and shine like the daystar.’

Like a maestro she raised her baton and the sun rose with it. The earthstar dissolved into the body of a womam with two red pitchers of pouring water.

‘Dreams within dreams forever. Follow your dreams to the Lover’s Body and you’re Home. You are her, womam or man, young or old. She’s Lovus and so are all of us. This tableau portrays one of her eternal pastimes of loving fruition.

‘Her Body is the Daystar, embodying night stars. The seven stars are infinity, seven times seventy according to She’sus. Seven is unborn and can’t be penned in or pinned down. Divide 1 by 7 on your calculator; the answer isn’t precise like other single digits. With the other nine digits you get exact circles with a compass and straight edge but not with seven. She isn’t compassed or straight edged. The Lover is the virgin seven, whole unto herself, not born by the will, hand or phallus of man.

‘The seven days of the week lead to an eighth day, the first day in another set of sevens. The Sun Day is the eighth day according to Christians, the Resurrection of another set of sevens. Behind all the symbols is the Body of the Lover, Star of Stars in an earthly heaven and earth centered paradise.

‘The Lover births creation from her Body which is the Tree of Life with roots in the earth and arms branching for heaven. The Bird is her heavenly aspect.

‘Her red water pitchers of womamly fluids are ejaculated in a Sacred Mass of Mas-turbation which orgasms the pulsating universe.

‘Don’t be fooled. The stars of this world are cold stones trying to pass. The higher they rise the faster they fall, and hard as they are, they can’t last.’

The air grew still like deer hearing sweet music or transfixed by bright headlights. Joy’s speech made the elements speechless and still.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 5

You’re the Star of your own show but not of stage or screen; the Five of number consciousness is the kind of state I mean. You’re getting up higher in this home of Love and man with a Star rising over you in the house of Bethlehem. A Star will lead you home or you’ll wash down the Jordan and sink like a Stone. A burned out Star is an old cold Stone. A five pointed Star is your head and hands outstretched; reach for the Stars when your heart feels wrecked. When your soul has grown, your Star is shown. Twinkle, twinkle little Star, I wonder what you are; I’m going to where you are, driving in the sun god’s car. Look up, Love, to the North Star pole; she will guide you sure to your real life’s goal and show you your true Love’s soul. You’re in the sacred circle ring of Starlight fire: the same true thing that gods desire. The world’s run by men with hearts of Stone who can’t hear children cry or womem moan; they put their stock in things they own; they’re a million miles from home. People are dressing up for bars and kissing up to stars; if they go whoring, you won’t; what they’re doing, you don’t. The starlets of stardom teach what not to do; I’m going higher and deeper to a room with a view. High overhead, the Stars are my bed. The hour is late; I wait by your gate. I come in to your Star’s fire power; I come deeper to your sweet sleepers bower. Wherever you are, bright morning Star, I’m coming to you; straight on and true. Star light, Star bright, I’ll be tight with you tonight. Five Star, I came from afar to be where you are. You’re a symbol for us, the Star of consciousness. You’re a heart of energies burning bright; a spark of infinity’s warming light. Five is the sign of the humam figure: Five Starlike projections point to what’s bigger. Number Five, you’re alive; make us thrive. Star of day, show the way. Sign of life, be my wife. Sign of Joy, you are Love’s envoy.


Prose 5

In my desire for higher consciousness of the Lover, I arrive at number five.

Who am I? That is the question. The answer is the Lover, an hypothesis that I continually test and prove to myself. It cannot be proved by the mind because Love is the realm of the heart but the mind can accept the proven evidence of the heart.

The Lover is the Star of the Show, the sun day Star who holds her solar system to her breast, the star-center of the universe who nests it all together.

The Lover and her seven sisters make the eight Stars of the Star card. Seven stars roll themselves into one Star. The Lover reveals who I am through her Star self.

With one knee on the ground and one foot on the water, the Lover shows her earthly and watery nature. Mother Earth and Womam Nature. The pouring red pitchers are blood and water that flow from her body to nourish the earth.

She is the tree of life, rooted in the world and the Bird of Flight, messenger of the heavens. Her humam figure is a Five pointed Star symbol, spinning like a spiral galaxy. She is the all in all, Everywomam and Everyman, universal Star symbol.

The all-in-all no-thing at the center of every-thing, the Lover is both exalted Star and lowly Stone, the cap Stone and corner Stone patriarchal builders rejected.

Burned out Stars and hearts of Stone seem to be alive but are dead, cold and heavy souls. Patriarchic men are burned out sons, turned against their own womamly nature and child needing nurture. Lost, cold, sold out souls.

The Lover kneels on the earth Stone with its hard crust and molten hearth. She softens it with the moisture of her waters and the lava of her blood. She warms it with her sun-body Star. I pick up her card play and follow suit. I play in her Star show.

Even in the most cold, hard Stone there is a spark of consciousness. I fan that spark and make it grow into a Star like Lover. We are All Stars, gathered together into one Star, the Lover. I sing “Five Star” in my heart. I am a Five Star Lover.

I spend the night in the Lover’s Star studded bed in a fireworks display of Love. For this ecstatic adventure, she gives me XVII Love Notes which I may redeem from her Love reserve. I add 17 Notes to my other four Love units.


21 Line Poem 5

In my dreams I came alive

With the power of number five

I started out weak and small

And grew to be very tall

Slowly and amazingly

I rose up like a mighty tree

An awesome sight to behold

It made me feel brave and bold

Those who before made me cower

Now drew back before my power

As I rose up toward the sky

I could see the reason why

The fifth dimension was so strong

Saw the source where it was born

The heavens above were bending down

Giving five its special crown

It made me feel like a star

To be lifted up so far

With my roots set deep in earth

I knew then what it was worth

How this number had her birth


Love 6

6 of Number

Beast & Beauty


Lover 6

Story 6

I was beginning to see a method in the madness of Joy. I had been lost in a woods or so it seemed. I might have been dreaming or acting out unconsciousness needs. My desire for love might be a strong attractor for Joy which manifested in dreamlike experiences. Perhaps it was true: life was a dream on many levels.

‘Sounds like you’re not sure if dreams come true’ a voice in my head said. The voice was Joy. I didn’t know if she was dream or reality but true to her name, she brought a feeling of joy.

‘You wanted to go home. You can’t go anywhere these days without a government and since home is where the heart is and the heart is love; therefore, the Lover has provided us with a Love Government, complete with white house in black trim.’

I knew one thing: I wanted to go home to a house of love and joy. This house that Joy was taking me through was a lighthouse for my battered boat on a stormy sea. Whether it would be the lovehouse I was seeking. . . well I’d have to wait and see.

‘For a patriarch you’re catching on fast. Old gods can learn new tricks. Here’s magic trick to show there is more than is dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio.’

With a wave of her wand, quick as a wink, we were on another level. A lady and a lion materialized out of thin air. Who was Joy? A genie or a guru? I didn’t rub a bottle or choose a door but here I was in Wonderland again with Alice Joy.

‘Your wish is my command. If a lady can tame the beast of patriarchy, so can you. I have an infinity halo over my head just like you. The King of Beasts is inside you. When you govern him you’ll have turbocharged horse and lionpower.

‘You control more lions with ladies than with lasars. The sweetness of Beauty teases the Beast to Love. Love the Great Satan Patriarch who prowls the earth seeking whom he may devour, nowadays with think-tanks. Like I said in another incarnation: be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.’

Joy hit the bull’s eye and my own evil eye. If I could get the patrix bull by the horn and turn his eye or at least the head of his patriarchal pizzle, I could get a bull whip off my back. For that I needed Strength, nothing less than the Strength of Love.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 6

I go from room to room, sun to moon, April to June and tune to tune in the procession of this temple’s progression. I go to confession before solemn profession. On level number Six of this holy house I make my vow to Beauty now. I heard the story of Beauty and the Beast; I know the moral about wanting what I need least. I never put hope in the princess and her toad; never smoked the Beast of dope or stole his silver and gold. I’m betting on Beauty that’s more than skin deep; on a Lover whose promises keep. The Beast disguised as Beauty makes people objects and lies with beauty products. The Beast is king of the road; he builds up lines for the goods that are sold. Oh, you beautiful dreamer, you’re a sweet schemer; can’t get taken in by your beautiful lies; must see the heart through true Beauty’s eyes. There’s a thousand ways I’ve gone wrong; a million times I’ve forgotten my song but I’m back on track until I stop at the top. You’ve brought me this high so I don’t see why the sky’s the limit when your Beauty’s in it. Beauty’s true circle is Six times Six and zero. Six and Six and Six is the Beast of Roman Nero. Ten times Six counts the minutes for you; Six times ten minutes make up your hours too; even the Six sided snowflake surrenders her due; and the bee builds her house in honor of you. Your Beauty is my great attraction; your loveliness is my mate satisfaction. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and your Beautiful eye makes me bolder. I am aware of a Beauty beyond compare. My heart and soul melt when your Beauty is felt. Six is the number of your Beauty’s symmetry; the model of the world’s mimicry. You thrill my heart next to me; take away my breath with ecstasy. Beauty is beyond words of mine; resides in the play of worlds that shine. Love made Beauty, as it were; just to show her loving coeur; on the Sixth day She made her.


Prose 6

The Lover is a giantess of Strength, dwarfing the mountains and trees at her feet. She has the Strength to tame the king of Beasts. The infinity symbol over her crown and the flowers around her head and waist indicate her unlimited power of Love and Beauty. What is true of her is also true for us. As she is, so we are. Lovers all.

The Beast takes many forms but none so formidable as power and money. Power’s abuse of money is the root of evil. The money system is the power of this world, an unnatural king of Beasts. Godfathers even put God’s name on their money.

Love is the only power that can tame this Beast. The Lover as personification of Love is the Strength than can make the Beast lie down with lambs and eat grass.

I call on the Lover in her shape of Beauty to balance my Beast in his hydra headed tangle of devils. Beauty civilizes the Beast by the Strength of Love which awakens within him. There is Beauty in the Beast and a Beast in Beauty. She could not prevail unless she had a powerful Beast within her breast with which to calm him.

Beauty kisses the Beast, a euphemism for having sex with him. With this act of Love, the Beast turns into a prince and his misshapen ugliness into Beauty.

The upward male triangle and the downward triangular womam’s heart-vulva sign, one over the other make the six sided Beauty star of David and Bathsheba.

I need the Lover’s Strength to govern the Beast of patriarchy. The corruption and wars of the world are projections of an inner money-power Beast. As the greater Government of Love takes hold, governments are less Beastly and more Beautiful.

I play the Lover and make her story mine. The 666 of Roman Nero becomes the 360 of my Lover hero. Beauty is the center of ground zero where lion slayers of this world eat from her hand. The Beast of patriarchy is tamed by womam’s Love.

Beauty is no fantasy. She is the reality which her card signifies. The fantasy falls down like a house of cards when she herself comes. Next to her giant Strength, lords and lions, men and Beasts lay down and are governed by her gentle Beauty.

I help the Lover tame the patriarchic Beast. We retire from the field to her bed where we play Beauty and Beast. She gives me VII Love Notes for a total of 25.


21 Line Poem 6

When they get a perfect fix

Numbers make a solid six

One plus two plus three it’s true

Equals six in all its parts

One times two times three ensure

That the same result imparts

Such remarkable symmetry

So simple and so orderly

In my mind you take your place

Next to beauty’s radiant face

Why this marriage I do not know

I only care it thrive and grow

I love your flowing graceful form

It makes me feel your warm

Embrace upon my spirit’s torn

Yearning for more to be born

On the sixth day Love made man

According to her masterplan

Just before as it were

She thought to show beauty’s coeur

Prior to him she made her


Love 7

7 of Number

Sins & Wins

High Priestess

Lover 7

Story 7

I was wondering what came next when Joy announced herself in her best conductor voice: ‘Next stop, end of number line, Seven.’

I thought I died and went to heaven, for sitting in a temple between pillars with beautiful penetrating eyes was a High Priestess. Since I was a priest once myself, I appreciated the ceremony. I knew the habit did not make the monk since I was once a monk too. What was under the robes made the man or in this case the womam. I was asking myself what this all meant when the object of my wondering spoke.

‘I’m glad you asked. I do what priestesses do: hold things together by governing. We’re storytellers, talkers with the gift of gab who hold people with words, at least until we allowed men to shut us down with swords. Since then the word world’s been falling apart, if not torn apart and blown apart with wars.

‘Men make war. Womem make love. Never the twain shall meet except in lover-earth. Womem are the middle. That’s the riddle. I sit between black and white pillars. I have x ray eyes and a + ray heart to look through the darkest black holes all the way to the bottomless bottom. I know the seven deadly sins and the seven bedly wins. I administer the Taro Tora Law and the Love Government.

‘I am wholly holy because womem can do many things at once. Men have penis heads which gets them into holes but miss wholes. Never trust a necktie. It cuts off the heart and will be a noose when the bottom gives way. He who has ears to hear let him hear Deliah shaking Uncle Sam’s son’s pillar.

‘The two columns are the two sides of me, my feet, knees, legs, hips, vulva lips, ovary horns, breasts, arms, hands, fingers, ears and eyes. I am the Holy of Holies. I allowed the High Priest to enter the holy place once a year. On other days I masturbate with my priestesses. Every time you pass through a doorway, you pass through my pillars. The double ax is my pelvis crests and this dual axis world my Body.

‘My two sided ax will cut the root of patriarchy to the very tip. I am She’sus Chrest of the pelvic crest, not Jesus Christ of the hell sick cross. Come to me, you who hunger and thirst and I will give you rest. I am the ground zero earth nest.’


Stream of Consciousness Poem 7

Level Seven is close to heaven. Seventh heaven is not a place but the grace of a holy face. Seven is the number of the virgin, free of human urging; unconceived by the will of man, subject to a different plan; not constructed by a womb, untouched by Love’s bridegroom; unborn in nature’s way, you emerge in chance’s play. A lucky number to be sure; a loving wonder to the pure. Immaculate conception and virgin birth; a Seventh heaven reception by mother earth. Happy go lucky break, take away my sad hearted ache. The sacred number of the gods, you go under all the odds. I meet you in your upper room; drink your wine and touch your loom. This house is built on Seven’s truss on trust; a Seven by Seven sturdy grid; a heavenly earthly pyramid. Seven’s the key that opens the door to the Priestess store of Loverlore. On the Seventh day, Lovus took her rest; on the Seventh floor I am her guest. Seven days in nature’s week; Seven spaces for those who seek; Seven steps in the musical scale; Seven tests to discover the holy grail; Seven wonders in by gone ages; Seven chakras in body stages; Seven rungs to Seven sisters; Seven seas from Seven rivers; Seven rays for Seven days. Wisdom hath builded her a house; she hath hewn out her Seven pillars; she has given it to us but it is still hers. With Seven you cannot be certain what’s behind the curtain. Seven comes with the luck of the draw; I’m in awe of her higher law. The Seven wonders are Seven Wins to balance the Seven deadly Sins. Seven Wins with the luck of the draw; she rests her case on unwritten law. When push comes to shove, it’s a matter of Love. Life’s a game of luck and tuck; if that’s the case, I hedge my bet; I make you a place, the table’s set. Come, Seven, bread without leaven. Lady Luck, help me Win; balance my mortal, deadly Sin. Oh, pure holy virgin merry; heal my heart; make it marry.


Prose 7

My path winds upward. I reach the top of the number line. One is fun. Two is blue. Three is family. Four is love’s floor. Five is alive. Six is beauty’s sex. Seven is heaven which makes numbers leaven. In short, one is fun and seven is heaven.

I am the Lover Priestess who embodies the communal circle and hierarchical house. I sit between the white pillar of Joy and the black pillar of Beauty, the mean between each extreme, the means to Love’s end. Like Sampson I shake the pillars of patriarchy and like She’sus drive the money changers from Love’s holy temple.

I hold a tora scroll. Taro contains tora. Tarot and torah are part of Love’s law.

New and full moons are at the Lover’s feet and head, moons with milk white horns, flowing from her breast through the cross, nurturing the harvest backdrop.

The High Priestess has little to do with rites and everything to do with rights. The cross on her heart marks the spot where Love bloodlines meet.

Her sky blue shawl and moon white dress are her flowing heavenly and earthly graces. She has the power of Seven Wins over Seven deadly Sins of the patriarchs, Jehovah and Baal, one white with fright and the other black with lost sight.

Number Seven brings me to the door of the Lover’s temple. I need only cross the threshold to her Love. The high priest entered the Holy of Holies once a year. In the Lover’s temple, the door is always open. I enter her Holy of Holies as she wills.

The Lover is the High Priestess who rules numbers, foundations of creation. Seven is the number of the virgin because an exact Seven circled flowerette cannot be created with a compass like other numbers can. Seven is the unborn virgin number.

In sacred houses of womem, womem choose their sexual mates. They do not need marriage to legitimize children. Unmarried temple priestesses were called virgins by patriarchs out of wishful thinking and desire to control them.

The Lover is the High Priestess of sex, choosing partners at her own pleasure, sexual mediatrix and sacred soulmate Lover of Everywomam and Everyman.

In her temple of Love, we make heaven and earth come together. For this act of Love, the High Priestess gives me two notes for two pillars, for a total of 27.


21 Line Poem 7

I wondered then what it meant

All those things I had dreamt

Here I was on solid ground

Yet nothing steady could be found

I had passed the test, come to rest

In the end had found a friend

Last was first and first was last

I surveyed the scenery of my past

Was this the place so greatly sought

Was this the state I had wrought

It’s all so simple so I thought

And brought to mind the things you taught

All my pains that came to naught

The blessings already are you said

The words ran surely in my head

This is it, that’s all there is

There’s nothing else but hers and his

A seventh heaven right down here

Almighty Love so close and near

I heard her laugh full and deep

I woke up from my ancient sleep


Second Line in Seven Levels


All along the line

The river takes its time

Starting in the snows

Running round the hills

To the valley where it fills

The lakes and streams

With a gardener’s dreams

The river was sent

In order to prevent

Time’s happening

All at once

So roll on slow mover

Go on gradual grower

Child growing tall

Time healing all

In the grand recycling

Mother Nature has her fling

Father Time does his thing

So to sooth my soul

Roll, river, roll


Love 8

1 of Time

Tomb & Womb

The World

Womb Womam

Lover Womam

Story 8

Joy’s trip was a video game of cards. I had completed column one and picked up 14 wands, 9 swords, 2 coins, 3 cups and 27 lovars. Joy said these were power points. She was right; I felt more powerful as I progressed. Like a video game I was knocking off patriarchal bad guys with lovelasars.

‘And with style,’ Joy shot back. She was a blast of high powered energy. She’d be hard to beat in a one on one match. I didn’t think she could match the High Priestess but Joy had a whole new World in mind. She started a new deal of sevens in the suit of time with the World card.

‘Behold the World.’ With these prescient words, vision eight unfolded, a womam dancing inside a wreath. Was I on a vision quest? The vision had a voice.

‘Yes, it’s a vision quest. Be my guest. You’re wondering if you are making this up or if I am some kind of divine revelation. You decide. The patriarchs decided God was talking to them. They made their words the word of the Lord. Well, I’m no lord and would a lady be naked like this?

‘The O is the cosmic egg, the O at the heart of consciousness, the O orgasm creation, ground zerO, the digital O who makes love with 1, a womam’s O circle, the Lover’s O of joy when she orgasms the universe into existence, the sound of AUM or OM, the O of everything and nothing, circle and circumference, Heart of Hearts.

‘I am O’Lover, Of the Lover, daughter of Lover, sun of Lover, the .dot the fathers called a big bang. I dance in a sacred sphere, keeping all in balance, a conch-like spiraling helix. Like a cheerleader, I twirl two batons, leftover remnants from womam’s culture of bull horns. I take the patriarchal bull by its horns.

‘The head of a bull resembles my internal sex organs from ovaries to vagina. I celebrater my sexuality which encompasses the horny bull of masculinity. The four evangelists wrote about me but patriarchs forced them to disguise me as Jesus.

‘I am Womam, I am Womb-am, the Way, the Truth and the Life. The world is saved through me. This is a hard saying and you many want to walk away. That’s OK. It’s the long way around but I’ll be waiting there too.’


Stream of Consciousness Poem 8

In the beginning was the Womam, into time untimely hurled. In time with time, time uncurled; time after time lifetimes whirled. I waited for you on that distant shore, I waited until I could wait no more. The time came for me to go into the world’s wrack and woe. The world’s a Tomb where I seem to die; it does no good to weep and cry. Sooner or later my body will die whether or not there’s a reason why. Besides a Tomb, the world’s a Womb; a saving grace in this place. The prophet spoke about being born into cities of smoke and fields forlorn. To be carried by a Womam is a blessing to desire; such a bearing is a sign of things that are higher. The warm Womb here is the safe home there; to be held so here is to be in Love everywhere. I live with my Love in this world below; little will change when it comes time to go. You are here and you are there; if you’re with me, I don’t care. By your mighty Love I was conceived; and for my birth your world was weaved; from heaven’s Womb I was relieved; for my purpose here I was believed. My Tomb still resides on the other side across the sea deep and wide; when I return I’ll use that same tombstone; take what I’ve learned and build a new home. Hamlet called the world a rotten mess; and more a whore of consciousness; the warriors forget the Womb that bore them, try to kill the worms that gore them. But you and I have seen the doom that follows those who foul the Womb, those who march and push into the Tomb, who’ve made reservations for their room. You and I sing a different tune of second birth that’s coming soon. The Tomb we go in is not a ruin; it’s a Womb in which we grow in. It was your Love that gave me birth, brought my body down to earth. Our Love still makes the world go round, our dance keeps stars and planets bound. Oh, be mine, ace of time. I do intend with you to spend, worlds without end.


Prose 8

I move over from the suit of number to the suit of time. In the beginning was the Womam and the Womam was with Lovus and the Womam was Lovus.

The stories of his-story are herein changed to conform to womam’s her-story. The patriarchic world of gods and godfathers is an illusion designed to disempower womam by stealing the language of her nature and rewriting her-story.

The Lover is the Womam who creates time, the second strand in the weave of her consciousness. The World is a Womam, Mother Nature, Mother Earth, Mother Lovus. the Womam World card is a Womam dancing in the middle of an O, the cosmic egg, ground zero and heart of hearts. Her dancing weaves worlds without end, including earthbound man, skyfree eagle, domesticated cow and wild lion.

When the fathers discovered Womem were using them to make babies, they turned stories, religions and power into patriarchy. The word woman is changed to Womam. The true story is that man is derived from Womam, born from her Womb.

The fathers replaced goddess with god, made in their image, jealous of the power of Womam. The male god is a snake in the bush, penis in vagina. Womam is the garden and man is the fruit that hangs from her tree. The fathers made up history out of their lust for power. The Lover makes up herstory out of Love for people.

Clothed in a spiraling purple helix, she holds two batons for clitoris and penis, female cow and male bull whose heads portray her inner ovaries and vulva organs.

She is heavenly purple and earthly green-red. Her red blood creates the green World. She flies like an eagle and roars like a lioness. Lucky the drone who can fly high to checkmate her. The World is a Womam’s Womb, no dead man’s Tomb.

I dance with the World Womam in an ecstatic cosmic dance of Love. I sing the true story of who we are, chanting the ‘om… oma… womb… am… mam’ in Womam.

For her own pleasure, the Lover gave birth to her Lover, 0 gave birth to 1, nothing to everything, Womam to man and Womb to World, a Womam’s World.

We make Love in a sacred circle, creating the four cornered World. 21 Love notes are added to my account for a total of 48. These notes are music to my ears.


21 Line Poem 8

It came to me the other day

In a gentle sort of way

Like a sixth sense coming through

To show me more of what is true

How in the great scheme of things

Beauty took her place among the rings

How if I were to go down

I needed to slow down

And see the beautiful symmetry

In the Lover’s stately majesty

I came to know quite naturally

About the laws of harmony

How everything took its place

With a flowing touch of grace

My inner sense came to know

A way of resting, letting go

I let it be and saw it grow

Took it easy, took it slow

I fell into a sort of trance

Joined the free and easy dance

From above to below


Love 9

9 of Time

Curse & Nurse

Five of Wands & Queen of Pentacles

Nurse Baby

Lover Baby

Story 9
I was thinking about what a marvelous shapeshifting shaman Joy was. If she was the wild card who could play any role, then she was all these card characters we were meeting on our journey. She was a one womam play.
‘It’s all Love. I serve the Lover. That’s all I do.’ Joy was playing Echo, the nymph of Greek legend who pined away for love of Narcissus until nothing was left of her but her voice. With an Echo like Joy I loved to play Narcissus.
‘The Lover is all there is. This house of mirrors shows the diamond facets of her beauty.’ With a sparkle in her eye, Joy’s joystick became a sparkler and we followed in its wake to the second dimension of time. A queen gazed lovingly into a golden ball while across the way five giants waved their warstick wands.
Joy assumed the majestic voice of a queen. ‘The pentacle is a crystal ball filled with golden light. In Womam’s Golden Age, earth, womem and children were jewels of the realm. Peace reigned on earth and there was no need for an escape hatch to heaven. Earth was paradise enough, always and all ways.
‘Patriarchy destroyed matrilovry and took to sword fighting with phallic wands. I guess it was more exciting than caring for children and gardens. Patriarchers aimed to be kings of the dead rather than lovers in bed. They developed hard heads and when that wasn’t enough, hard hats.
‘Hard penises became something to measure manhood by and porn was born. It’s a long way from bed to battlefield but the fathers covered it in record time. The boat of Love was turned into a ship of fools steered by patriarslick loose cannons. When the phallic Titanic was ice sliced, it wasn’t the womem and children who got the life rafts but the rats and fat cats who gave Womam the shafts.
‘The Lover and her government of Love stand for earth, womem, children and men in that order. Men usurped Love’s authority and the ship of state may not weather the perfect storm of that fool’s gold choice.’
If I had a choice, I’d vote for Joy. Line up history’s male brains from here to the moon and they don’t equal what comes out of the mouths of babes like Joy.
Stream of Consciousness Poem 9
For nine sweet months I took my rest; with warmth, food and Love, I was blessed. In the suit of time came on the second test; to leave the wombly nest for mother’s breast. Of all the steps on time’s stepladder, the second rung is the most to matter. Of all the levels that assault and batter, the worst of all must be the latter. Nature designed her strictest should when she created Babyhood; from womb to breast is mighty leap, miss that jump and you’re in trouble deep. At the breast a Baby was meant to nurse; deny her that and you’ve placed a Curse. Even if you stole everything from every purse, you could not hurt anyone any worse. The gods damn to hell society’s norms that Curse to pain its youngest forms; demons punish humanity’s laws that take the nipple from infant jaws. I was almost stillborn dead from doctor’s drugs and medicine’s mugs; I could scarcely breath in that atmosphere sterile; enter those mausoleum monuments at your peril. My cousin Claude wonders what is wrong with him; he can’t understand the Curses that throng to him. I would tell him about the Curse if he could withstand it but I’d tell him what’s useless if he can’t countermand it. There’s only one way to lift the Curse: go back and learn to Nurse; throw away all the big boy toys, rest on the breast with babyhood joys. There’s only one thing your Baby can do to help you see what’s true about you: make you feel so sad, so incredibly bad that you’ll either get glad or indelibly mad. Those who have lost their Babies have a severe case of rabies: they foam at the mouth with sold out rage or sink to the south with old tooth age. Rock a bye Baby on the tree top; from your cradle make the world stop; if the world doesn’t turn maybe we’ll learn that Baby’s a stage for everyone’s age. Open the door to your mother’s cor. Cure our blindness with her humam kindness. Give us rest at her breast.
Prose 9
We have all been Babies and remain Babies in Love. We are utterly dependent on Mother Nature, and the milk of her humane kindness. The Queen of Pentacles looks at the Baby of her womb in the golden symbol of the pentacled humam being.
Across the way, the golden five extensioned humam has turned into five raging and warring giants. How did the garden nest of Eve turn into the war-den of Evil?
A Baby was meant to Nurse in the arms of a loving mother. A mother was meant to be served by the arms of a loving father. The fathers’ arms turned into weapons against womem, womem’s milk turned bitter, and Babies starved from the lack of loving mothers and fathers. This is the legacy of power mad patriarchy.
Patriarchy with its god awful gods is the devilish thief of Love. Patriarchy is a consciousness, the green eyed monster of jealousy, not a gender. It is found in both sexes. Womam, Nature’s Nurse, has been run through with a penile sword, and we all cry with a starving Baby’s agony, no matter what our chronological age may be.
I feel the sorrow of the world behind the smiley faces and warring races. We miss our mother because we lost a nurturing father. God the Father is an invention of godfathers. I see them in dark suits with ropeties around their necks, choking off their womamly hearts. My heart weeps for womem and children.
I am the Lover and her consciousness body house. I Nurse womem and children, and succor them with Love. I take away the five penis-wands from patriotic idiots.
I see myself in the beautiful Eve of the garden, holding the Lover’s sphere. A rabbit runs by, symbol of a natural and free sexuality. The mad fathers killed the rabbit, clearcut the garden and slew mother and child when they carved up earth and people as their private property. The Lover Government brings a womam’s balance.
I think of the Lover, and say “Nurse Baby” to lift the curse on Babies without true mothers, because of cruel fathers. I envision a Lover Government where Love protects Babies. I begin by making the Lover governess and mistress of my heart.
I pick up the five wands and add them to my stock. The queen gives me her pentacle, the child of our union, for 19 wands, 9 swords, 3 coins, 3 cups and 48 notes.
21 Line Poem 9
I wish I could have held you then
Held you again and again and again
Baby, baby, baby
Mama, mama, mama
I hear the sigh you never sighed
Feel the tear you never cried
Dressed all up in grown up garb
I see your blanket in the yard
What will you do when life’s hard
Who will water the flowers
Or start the sprinklers
In the early morning hours
Come sweetheart to my breast
I will give you milk and rest
All the angels from above
Send you gifts of precious love
All your hours have been numbered
By the moon while you slumbered
I don’t care if it’s a girl or boy
All I want is joy on joy
Girl oh girl, boy oh boy

Love 10

3 of Time

Tragic & Magic

Four of Pentacles & Six of Cups

Magic Child

Lover Child

Story 10

Speaking of children,” the Echo voice said in my head, “our midnight special dream train has stopped at level three.”

Sure enough, the fantastic story being unfolded by Joy turned another page. From the window of my train of thought I saw two children playing with six flower filled cups while across the tracks their older brother played King Midas. I heard a still older joyous child at heart speak words of wisdom to my old cold soul.

“You were a child brought up Christian so I’ll use that catechism. She’sus the Chrest of Love catechised that if you want to enter her lovedom, you have to be a child. She’sus was a child herself. It takes one to know one.

“You wince at my changing Jesus’ gender. I’m just changing it back to what it was. Imagine how womem and children winced when patrifathers twisted their language around. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Children are geniuses at inventing and coining words, like lovus, joyus and She’sus.

“Godfathers built a prison house of words and wonder what happened to the palace. See with the eyes of a child and enjoy an emperor without clothes. It’s quite entertaining. Robes cover fat paunches and knobby knees. Imagine naked judges and popes without their dresses taking poops, like females in their Freudian slips. I’m a child and have see-through eyes. Patriarchs prefer see through blouses.

“Through marriage laws, justices connived to pass crowns and coins to their children, preferably males who carry on their name. You see one of the father clones dressed as a clown in furs before the City of Man. The sins of fathers are visited on their children to the seventh generation, making unholy procreations.

“Break the vicious circle. Be a child at all levels and ages of time’s dimensions. Hold a womam’s crest rather than the military, patriwarrior christcross. The gospel writers did the best they could with Roman inquisitors looking over their shoulders and breathing down their necks with nails and crosses in hand. They had to write in code and so do I. Homeland security has a nervous trigger finger. Be a child under the protection of the Love Government. That’s lasting security.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 10

When I was a Child, I spoke as a Child; when I was old, I broke with that mold. I went to the circus but the clowns had all gone; even the jugglers had gone from the town. The three of time went out on a spree, jumping that rope and climbing that tree; making a run for the top in the suit of time, having fun without stop with reason and rhyme. A Magic moment of time, except that of course, the train got derailed and the plane went off course. Trapped in tracts, I got stopped in my tracks and deplaned and caught in the racks. There’s nothing so Tragic as loss of the Magic; nothing so cruel as boss of the school. I went into town but there was no one around except study heads dead in their beds. I went to the fair to talk to the moon; who travels there with the dish and the spoon. I picked up my sticks and built me a house; no one helped me, except for the mouse. My mother’s the queen and my brother’s the prince; I left the palace with Alice, and haven’t been back since. It used to be that I played with Jack’s but now at Jill’s I pick up her tacks. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll still be seven; if I make a baker’s dozen, it’ll still be eleven. If I ever get past the correctional inn, I’m going to play gin with the Child within. If you’re walking the line in the house of your dreams, they’ll give you a fine which is not what it seems; they’ll steal your Magic wand and declare it a crime, take your crystal ball and give you a dime. If you’re going to make it to the top of the hill, you better be Jack and marry your Jill, stay out of their sight or they’ll break your crown; you didn’t do it right and they don’t want you around. Through this house I go from room to room. I hurry or putter with an old Magic broom. I’m going to be like Jesus, meek and mild; get to the kingdom of the Magical Child. I’ll be like Beauty and the Beast: find out the door to their Cor; discover the most in the least.


Prose 10

The journey of time goes through seven stages. Child time is the third of seven ages. It’s a Magic time if it is rooted in the first stage of Womam’s Love and the second stage of Baby’s Nursing. If not, the Child Magic turns sad and Tragic.

The children of the six cups play in a Magic land of beauty. The beast lives in the city of four coins where a rich Child, dressed in crown and furs, turns Tragic. Twisted power, sex and money steal the Magic Child and resell a Tragic Child.

The Lover is a Child who turns the world into a Magic wonderland. Anything is possible with the Magic power of Love when the Lover empowers the Child in us.

With Magic eyes, I see the evil of moneyism, foisted on womem and children by fatherism. The five pointed pentagonal Child has been stamped and imprisoned with gold coins like money chained sheeple under a churchly and stately steeple.

I am a Magic Child who would rather play in a country cottage than sit in a city palace. That patriotic city of money is built on the bones of womem and children.

My Magical Child tells the truth about my mother and father. My mother is the Lover, and my father is my mother’s lover. A Magic Child comes from a Magic father, not from the false godfathers of patriotic, idiotic, patriarsick patrimoney.

Nature has been perverted by patriarchy. The Lover restores the original order by putting womem and children first. The false fathers of patriarchy should climb the cross themselves, not put their made up Jesus icon there. Jesus is the Lover She’sus.

A new day is dawning when the Lover will restore her Lover Government. The lamb will lead the lion, the Child will mother the father, and Love will trump money. Lovus will baptise god and goddess with her flowing waters of Love.

I look on the world with the eyes of a Child. I feel the Lover with a heart meek and mild. I know Love with the simplicity and trust of a well mothered Child. I see the Child card and think ‘Magic Child.’ The money shadowed Tragic Child learns what the Magic is all about. It’s about raising the Child consciousness of us.

I take the four coins from the crowned Child and set him free to join the cup children. My store grows to 19 wands, 9 swords, 7 coins, 7 cups and 48 Love notes.


21 Line Poem 10

Like a child on the run

Picking flowers in the sun

Up and down and all around

To and fro, high and low

Peek a boo, cat and mouse

Up the chimney in the house

In the corner with the king

And the maid who likes to sing

When you cry, the fiddlers three

Take you up upon their knee

Tell you stories that never end

Show you spoons that will bend

Wonder wise surprise my eyes

Without trying win the prize

Take it easy climbing ridges

Have fun building bridges

Look up high they are nigh

Lifting you up to the sky

Fears allayed while you played

Loving parents took you there

To that castle in the air


Love 11

4 of Time

Trussed & Trust

Eight of Swords & Page of Swords

Teen Trust

Lover Teen

Story 11

Joy had strong feelings about the state of the world. We were on a time track and I trusted time was on our side. Maybe Joy’s Government was an idea whose time had come. I feared it would run into intense resistance if not military artillery.

“Track two, station four,” her by now familiar voice chimed out. I felt like I was growing up as we were going up.

“That’s the idea of this trip. Grow up. You don’t have to give up age stages. You’re still womam, baby and child. Keep them safe and secure while you move to the Teen age stage. Sure it’s scary to enter a new world but it’s a joy trip when protected by the Love Government. Your ticket is purchased. Just go along for the ride.”

Joy hit a sensitive nerve. I was scared. I wanted to stay in a womam’s womb, nurse at her breast and enjoy a carefree childhood. What had I gotten myself into? Was I painting myself into a corner? No matter. Life would push me out.

“Keep on keeping on. It’s all Love. Love is where we’re going and is every step and stop along the way. Love is a ball. Keep your eye on the ball. As for fear, take a look here at the Page of Swords with her trusty sword and her sister trussed about with eight untrusty terrorist terrible swift swords.

“Terror is the designer mood of the day. It was planned that way. Swords of patripower are penis guns, bullets and bombs. Patriterror is the cult air we breathe. Swords are everywhere, cutting all ways always.

“The Teen Page shows that swords have to be handled or they will handle you. Penis swords are testy at Teen time. In womam’s time they were faithful friends but patriarchy has made them into fetish fiends, repressed, angry, terrible terrorists on the one hand and weasel wimps on the other.

“Talk to your Teen. The purpose of the clitoris is pleasure. The vagina is for pleasure and reproduction. The purpose of the penis is pleasure, urination and reproduction. Womem have a urethra for urination and the pleasure of ejaculation.

“By her symbolic sword, the Teen Page shows her sacramental clitoris, the only sex organ designed solely for pleasure. Her body tells Love like she is.”


Stream of Consciousness Poem 11

I step on the stage of a different age and pay the going wage to turn the growing page. I add another floor to the consciousness building and pursue experiences more fulfilling. The process is easy if the stage has been set, if the baby’s been nursed and child needs met; but if the world was a tomb and the nurse was a curse and the magic was tragic, the Teen age is worse. In the trip of life, it’s sight’s peak or bust; I’ll be stripped in the strife without a Teenager’s Trust. Trust in myself on this stage is a must; a dried twig will be swept out with the rust and the dust. Now I’m older and I grow much bolder; I go back in time to find the tongue tied Teen who lost her mind when her heart got colder and her culture sold her. It’s not a pretty picture to be a broken fixture, when you can’t get out and you can’t get in. You’re stuck in the middle with no end in sight; you don’t know what’s wrong and it doesn’t feel right. If I don’t have Trust, I build up a crust; if I don’t have the balls, I build up the walls; if I cut my cord, I’m angry or bored; if I can’t get altitude, I settle for attitude. I’ve been there before where I couldn’t find the door so I built me a house and married a spouse. On the Teen age stage it’s Love life or bust; I’m looking for the page where I can make Love on Trust. I’ve got the fake game down to a tee; it’s the great Love game remains a mystery. I’m going to get back on track and be just on time and get on line with the sacred circle to make her mine. I’ll shake off my Truss and make Love with Trust. Romeo and Juliet lived in a bygone age when Love and Trust were all the rage. Now our story’s less gory and so is the glory. I’ll take my chances and make my advances with the great romances. Teen in me, you are free. Trust no other but your Lover, the one in two who is you. Four of time, Teen of mine, you can shine; get a grip, let it rip; Baby, face it, you can ace it.


Prose 11

The Teenages run from ten to twenty, a time of famine and/or plenty. If the womam, baby and child foundation is firm, the Teenage years will turn into strong adulthood. It takes Trust in oneself to nurture the power to become untrussed.

I see myself in the Page and Eight of Swords. I am a Teenage giant, wielding my sword of truth, with clouds and birds flying overhead. And yet, I am blindfolded and Trussed in a swamp ruled by the state-church steeple in the background.

The Teen years bring tears. The root meaning of the word Teen is misery and injury. Teens are injured because they have fathers and mothers and guardians who have sold their souls to the steeple masters, and have become sheeple people.

I am proud of the Teen in me. She is free of her old man’s corrupt crony world of moneyism, getting that money monkey off her back. Lovism is her idealism.

I Trust my Teen. She is an individuated Lover, card number 11, a double one. She and the Lover relate like two one’s, two strong, autonomous free individuals.

My Lover Teen knows she is “Only One,” with “Two Hands” free, and is “Three Virtues,” riding the “Four Winds” as a “Five Star” “Six of Beauty” and High Priestess of “Seven Wins,” born of a “Womam’s Womb,” a well “Nursed Baby” and “Magic Child.” With such progenitors, my Teen is a perfect Teenage ten.

Her task is great. Nothing less than to save her Mother Earth from a false father heaven, for he has made war on her and her sex. His arms are money and power. Hers are Love and justice. My Teen will grow up to be a super adult and a proud heroine. She will untruss her blindfold and ropes, and walk out of the swamp.

The Lover Teen will make the eight penile swords limp wimps. She will take a good, hard penis sword in hand and make earthicidal patriarchy take the stand.

I am a Teen at heart, half child and half adult. I remake the sword-world. The state-church fathers say it can’t be done. Why not? They made God in their image. I make Lovus in our image. The Lover Lovus checkmates the godpa God.

I unbind my Juliet Teen self who falls in Love with her self as Romeo page. The eight wicked swords and one wonderful sword make 18.


21 Line Poem 11

Critical, testing

Seldom resting

Keep on going

Tight and growing

Spice your style

With a smile

Yearning, burning

Ever turning

Keep on gunning

Loose and running

You can do it

You will prove it

Do your thing

Have your fling

It will bring

You the dream

That you’ve seen

Get a grip

Let it rip

Baby, face it

You can ace it


Love 12

Station 12

5 of Time

Stupid & Super

Nine of Cups & Queen of Swords

Super Adult

Lover Adult

Story 12

To tell the truth, despite myself, I was growing up. Maybe it was the power points I was accumulating along the way. Most of the time I was able to neutralize shadow terrorists before they got me. This virtual game felt real even if surreal. This time we were in the fifth dimension time warp moving with the speed of love.

“We’ve reached the Adult stop on our chronological time line, and as you can see by the pageant here, it can be Super or Stupid. I’m no man hater or patriarchy bater but a real-politik street survivor who calls a spade a spade. I’ve done my spade work and if I let men off the hook they’ve hung us on, I’m enabling their addiction.

“Men are Stupid. They’ve created patrimania which would be comic if it were not so tragic. As Queen of Swords I swear by the clitoris-penis in my firm right hand that what I speak is truth, whole truth and nothing but truth, so help me Lovus. OK, I’m being dramatic to make a point but the point still sticks and proves the rule. The pre-patriarchal womam’s culture is the cornerstone of Adulthood.”

I wasn’t sure if it were Joy, the queen or me talking but did it mattter? Adulthood was the issue and if poking fun at men surfaced it, I’d take it like a man.

“The Adult stage is one crest of this time wave, carrying you along. Your job is to keep your balance and ride it home. Super Adults are big waves. She’sus Chrest is such a crest. Chrestos in Greek means gentle so She’sus is a gentlewomam or gentleman or both. Christians chose Christ as their crest, and made Jesus an anointed warrior king priest. They missed the real meaning of anointing. Paul would roll over in his grave and miss the second coming if he knew anointing was for the head of a penis by a womam’s essential oils.

“To be an Adult is to have a fully developed womam’s consciousness, even if you’re in a man’s body. Men can talk about non-essentials until they bore a hole to hell. For macho men, Adult means x rated non essentials. For real womem, Adult means x rayed vision down to the bone. It’s scary because of the dark spots you might see, expecially if you’re in a male body. You might see you’re an Adult womam.”


Stream of Consciousness Poem 12

The river of time flows upstream to the country of your consciousness dream. You are going home on a watery road, pulling that barge and pushing that load. The riverboat docks at all the main levels; you can run in the rain or reign in the revels; you can pray with the natives or dance with the devils; catch fish on the pebbles or make hay with the rebels. The Adult marina is only one stop in time’s arena: you can get out on the dock and shop til you drop. The river of time will push you along, whether you sing your own song or mix with the throng of the right and the wrong. An Adult Love life can be Super if only you don’t unconsciously dupe her. When pursuing the Love god Cupid, don’t make the mistake of being Stupid. When I gave up reason, I was sold down the river; I committed self treason and pulled the trigger. The hero of the age is Super man but without his womam, he’s an also ran. Stupid in Love is the original sin; Super in Love is the big inning win. When my ship comes in to the Adult riverport, give me a twenty one gun salute report. Say he was going up the river to a far bigger giver, to meet the highland sources of the wild river forces. When my ship comes in, I’m going on board; when the boat bell rings, I’ll sheath my sword; when high tide begins, I will meet my lord. If the Adult card is up, I drink of its cup; come wrack or come wreck, I stand on its deck. The Adult card is the half way house along the river of time; when I draw that card, I make it mine. To be an Adult is to stand for Justice; to marry the Love that’s truly just us. Adult is the apex of humam life; a courageous Ajax conquering strife. I do battle on the plains of Troy; leave a child’s rattle and toys of a boy; drop the teenager playing coy and take up the sword of Adulthood joy. In this consciousness house, card game deal, I’ll find Achilles’ heel; and play Hector until I get her.


Prose 12

My baby-child-teen moves up the timeline and through the levels of this house and suit of time to be an Adult womam, the Queen of Swords. She’s growing up.

The Lover is an heroic figure, sitting on an angelic butterfly throne, above the pines and clouds with a loan eagle soaring on the four winds over her golden fourfold butterfly crown. Clouds adorn her sky blue cape over her cloud white gown. She holds the male sword phallus in her right hand with her left hand free as a bird.

She is an Adult who is grown up indeed. She is a Super Adult, the heroine of my heart, who for lack of a better word, I call Lover. She is my Love and my All. I live in her sacred sphere and holy house, and chant her sacred name, “Lover.”

She points across the way to her male counterpart who has made himself a Stupid prisoner of nine circling cups. The foolish man is indeed a jailbird of his nine tales, a cat of ninetailed lives, a hundred headed hydra, caught in the act of his endless patriarchic, patriotic, idiotic lies. The red hat and socks tell a tale of bloody war.

The Queen of Love’s gesture tells the long sad story of the fatherhood of fools. It would be comic if it were not so tragic. Lost boy-men play with mama’s red hat and grandma’s red hose. Moneyist, sexist, powerist buffoons wrecking the world from the council chambers of a phony fathers’ old boys’ club. The lords of lies and flies.

The Lover has come to balance her world with the two edged sword of truth and justice. Her sword balances on the arm of her sky throne, supported by an earth ball. Ball and lance are her instruments of bringing balance to her womam’s world.

I am both Super Adult and Stupid Adult, both Super Self and Shadow Self. I emphasize the Super side because the Stupid side has become so blasted and bloated.

I say the Lover’s name and play her game. It’s a million times better than the superbowls and supershows of the menchildren who pose as fathers, with their tanks and trucks. They are caricatures of real men, imposters like the Stupid Nine of Cups.

The queen knights me and gives me a sword. I free the prisoner patriarch and teach him to drink from the nine womamly cups to save his dehydrated soul. Now I have 19 wands, 19 swords, 7 coins, 18 cups and 48 notes. I’m growing rich indeed.


21 Line Poem 12

You’ve reached the stage

On which you play

A brand new age

On a grand new day

Gone the training wheels

No need for tire squeals

You’ve got the part

Now play your heart

The stage is set

For you to get

In just the right time

The chance of a lifetime

To have your hour

Of seasoned power

Audiences wait

Critics debate

Upon the fate

Of one come late

Be on time

You’ll be fine

Rise and shine


Love 13

Stations of the Sphere: 13

6 of Time

Quaint & Ain’t

The Hermit

Ain’t Saint

Lover Saint

Story 13

I was being pulled up by my bootstraps and I was the bootstrap being stretched. This was some time machine, back to the future in the present, an accelerated virtual hyperspeeeed growth trip, growing pains and all. At age 67, I was at sixes and sevens playing catch up. I wondered what I’d be when I grew up.

“If you’re in lovertime, you’re in the center of the wheel that’s spinning one way but appears to be going backwards until it stops altogether. Love bends time into a circle, a womam’s spiral conch which confounds patrilinear logic.

“Saint Man is on a straight course, hell bent for patriarch heaven. In his desire to escape, he goes off the deep end and ends up in a womam’s earth circle anyway. There’s no such thing as a straight line in Mother Nature. Straight lines and perfect circles are in the mind of man. Straight men go around in circles unknowingly.”

I was straight up and square tight. I was a monk like the Hermit, trying to be perfect like father in heaven. I was a perfect fool on my Quaint Saint quest so I guess it had value in teaching me what not to do. Now I’m an Ain’t Saint, using Mother Nature with her messy periods moonlight commas as my supermodel. She’s no model to make money for walkway gawkers but a real womam to wo makes love with live walkers, not dead talkers.

Among my Saintly virtues are depression, fear, cowardice, ignorance, lying, lust, resentment, spitefulness, laziness, selfishness and a thousand and one other seven deadly sins. If I could see my past lives, I’d see murder and mayhem too. I’m a cousin to Attila the Hun and Charles Manson. In the right circumstances my vices would slay my virtues. Fortunately, I’m too fearful to be really evil. I was raised to be a good boy who turned into Mr. Nice Guy.

I write because it relieves my anxiety and makes me feel good. I’d like to turn the world around but I’m too busy picking myself up off the ground. I’d like to live before I die, not dream of pies in the sky.

“A Quaint Saint you ain’t, ” teased Joy. “And you’re not an Ain’t Saint yet but you’re getting there. You get a C for showing up. Take IX love notes from the Hermit. That gives you 57. Be happy. Love is the only currency that counts.”


Stream of Consciousness Poem 13

The greatest Saint I ever knew turned out to be nothing more than you. I thought at first it was too good to be true but the idea took root and seedlike grew. There’s nowhere to go and nothing to do; no goals to meet, no roles to pursue; nothing at all, Love, but you who I woo. A Saint Ain’t what she used to be wrapped in a halo of mystery. Moses and Muhammed have lost their glow; Jesus and Buddha move too slow. Gurus and meditators of the new age, the heroes of sports and the stars of the stage, and holy relics that once were the rage lie in my heart like burned out sage. God in his laid on glory and goddesses of made up story seem like pictures of plaster and paint, drawn by the minds of artists too Quaint. Still the ideal of a Saint won’t go away; steals my heart like a beautiful day. It’s something in the air beyond what I say; draws me to you, to the garden where you play. For your Love, I’ll be that kind of Saint; give up everything that your sainthood Ain’t. A Saint is a pointer to where you’re not at; a faint still rejoinder that this isn’t that. Your quiet voice is my inner conscience; I’ll shut down the loud noisy annoyance; make my choice of an artful science and share with you a heartfelt alliance. I know in my heart what makes a Saint great; it’s you and I, Love, when we’re in checkmate. It’s great to be big and it’s great to be small; when I give it away I receive it all. Straight and narrow is the way to your heart. Saintly arrow, let me play in your art. The six of time is the rhythm of rhyme. You’re a passionate card in a timely suit; I’ve come to court and bring you to it. My proposal is marriage in the highest degree; the rose and the carriage of the whitest lily. Sun of heaven and fire of earth, soul without leaven and body of worth, bring us children of joy in a world of mirth. Six of time, sweeten mine rhyme, time after time.


21 Line Poem 13

Noble guide for my sojourn here

Faithful guardian, I feel you near

As a loving parent you can see

The things that are best for me

You know the plan that’s been prepared

The one in which we have shared

You’ll be with me down the road

Til the story of my life’s been told

You brought me through the major changes

Saw me past the minor ranges

Now I’m poised for another shift

Keep my heading true, not adrift

Although mostly hidden from my view

I feel your touch in what is new

In all the ways in which I grew

You helped me handle all my tasks

Relaxed the tension of my masks

I know I have a long way to go

There’s one thing I’ve come to know

Keep taking clues from up above

And walk with you in living love


Love 14

Stations of the Sphere: 14

7 of Time

Dope & Hope

The Chariot

Hope Heroine

Lover Heroine

Story 14

I had reached the end of the time line. I was running out of time. My patriarchic bluff wasn’t working. Heroes of hope and men of steel were crashing and burning. Even the trembling sheeple and pandering media could feel the earth shake under their feet. Mother Earth was waking from slumber.

All the gods and godfathers, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again. God was the problem because he was patriarchal and autocratic. It wasn’t his fault he had a penis; godfather patriwriters gave it to him. Patripenises had their chance to save the world and fell down on the job. I blamed foul, fearful, fuhrer, fatherist fools, terrorist tyrants.

“Sounds like you’ve hit the bottom of the barrel’s gun.” I heard Joy’s voice but it came from a Charioteer Champion with black and white sphinxes.

“You were looking for a hero and found a heroine. Heroines are the “in” heroes. We are womem in black and white, yin and yang bodies. Men are the negative pole and womem the positive whole. Men are white with fright next to the black hole of womem’s gravitational pull. Patrified men abandoned their roles as earth, womem and children lovers despite their rerendering of his-story bible books.

“I am black and white because I embody all extremes, a purple Krishna on the outside and a red Radha inside. Patriarchal priests rewrote herstory so thoroughly that Radha or the Gopis are not even mentioned in the Bhagavad Gita. Talk about a blacked out whitewash brainwash. Arjuna should have fought for Radha’s rights.

“I speak with the authority of Love and her Love Government. I’ve seen it all, been there and done that. My Mona Lisa sphinxes smile with knowing looks. I am the mean and the extreme. The star canopy is grounded on earth, light and heavy as the universe. Sphinx breasts and crescent moons are womam powers operating through a foursquare house. Skyblue winds fly with solid gold wheels. If you want to play Arjuna and go for a Radha ride, hop on in.”

My heart said yes to her joyride offer. With a Krishna joystick in hand and seven more lovars in the bank, we blasted off like Santa and Ezekiel on lovespeed.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 14

The seven of time is the Heroine of Hope; one of the characters to help us cope; from Muhammed Ali with his rope-a-dope to the robed and sceptered Catholic pope. If we can’t make it, we think they can; Heroes and Heroines are part of the plan. We are all Heroines to some degree, dying like Jesus upon a tree. The path of a Heroine is a lonely road, she has the job of carrying everyone’s load. I think twice before starting that path; about being the stock of everyone’s laugh. But I don’t see how to avoid that choice; not if I’m going to truly follow my consciousness voice. Most of the Heroes turn out to have feet of clay; they are just part of this consciousness play. They serve a useful purpose here on this earth to teach us all what we are worth. It’s not a mistake to follow the stars; the ones in the movies and behind the bars; as long as I remember that I’m a star too; shining in the heavens right beside you. My Heroes and Heroines are in ordinary life; the faithful husband and trustworthy wife. Those who set out to break the ice are neither naughty, nasty or nice; they’re ordinary people following their dreams and walking around the hollowing schemes. I’m a Hero in my own eyes, riding the sun in my inner skies. A true Heroine is called a Dope; many are hanged with a knotted rope. Would be Heroines are usually co-opted; caught in the racks until they are dropped dead. The Dope of this world is deadly malicious; while sold on the shelves as bedly delicious. I’ll be a Hero if I can live on Love’s Dope; the nectar of Lovus is no false lover’s Hope. My only real Hero is the Love of my heart; she’s decked in the beautiful cards of my art. Most of our Heroes are Dopes in disguise; buyer beware is a word for the wise. I take from these models their pearls of Hope; and leave out the oddballs and kernals of Dope. Lover, you’re my Hero of the sacred circle zero.


Prose 14

The High Priestess of card seven reappears as the Charioteer of card fourteen. They look like two sisters, or sister and brother, depending on what sex you think the Charioteer is. For me, she’s a she, even if she’s in a he’s body. She’s a She’sus Jesus.

The black and white pillars of the High Priestess return in the form of the breasted sphinxes. The Charioteer seems to have breasts too but it’s hard to tell. This is no ordinary black, white and gray world but a rainbow technicolor twilight zone.

This Heroine is grounded in the city of earth while bringing a sky canopy to the ground. The High Priestess’s half moon now cradles two “man in the moons” on her shoulders with a phallic symbol in her right hand, nicely portraying inner womam supporting outer man. She makes me feel solid as the stone she is grounded in.

Astrological signs cover her night sky dress, fitting for a heavenly earthly priestess. Wings of heaven adorn a square earth stone. Mystery abounds in down to earth solidity. It’s a sphinx-like black and white paradox, moving and perfectly still.

The card is random and yet set in a structure. So with the Lover. She is black and white and every color of the spectrum, nothing and everything and each something in between. I am her and not her. A Lover’s knot, not to be untied with nots.

My mind can only look and wonder while my heart splits the knot asunder. Womam is multiphasic in Lover language while man is left-brained in linear logic. Womam dances in a lunar circle; man advances in a patriarchic boardroom.

Vive la difference. When I know the difference, I can embrace the oneness. When I don’t know the difference, I am dull indifference. I get in the Chariot with my Lover. I am her charioteer with her two Mona Lisa sphinxes, mysterious and coy.

The seven of time is the top of the timeline. From here I jump to the wild card, holy card and high card. Or, I can make another loop, and go down to the bottom of the next column in the next suit. It’s the same Love suit for the Lover’s pure heart.

The Lover is no Panacea Dope. She’s Hope at the bottom of Pandora’s box.

I go for a joyride with the Lover and learn the Love secrets of the sphinxes who give me VII Love credits to be redeemed in the Lover’s bankbed. I have 64 notes.


21 Line Poem 14

She tried to tell me how

Everything’s happening now

You’ve walked this way before

On another distant shore

What you did then

You’re doing once again

You have another chance

To join the cosmic dance

Spinning wheels reversing

Future past rehearsing

At the hub hails a view

Ever changing ever new

The Ancient of Days

In the center stays

Eternal youth

In timeless truth

Faster and higher

On a rising spiral

Slower and lower

In motionless motion

Still the same eternal game


Third Line in Seven Levels


Spaces as different as night from day

Dreamland realms a breath away

Leaving behind their lingering traces

On reawakened familiar faces

A multidimensional layered game

Where all the levels are not the same

Inner space and outer frontiers

A cosmic dance in many tiers

I hitch my wagon to a star

And travel near and travel far

Initiates climb in solemn procession

The temple’s steps steady ascension

Stepping stones resting in the air

Carrying me from here to there

While still sitting in my chair

How can that be, she said to me

A ladder indeed, so said she

I wondered aloud as I grasped the rung

Where this would lead once begun

So said I, looking up ahead

At all the spaces in my head


Love 15

Stations of the Circle: 15

Chapter 15

1 of Space

Pain & Gain

Ten of Wands & Six of Wands

Body Gain

Lover Body

Story 15

My heart was fine but I was in over my head. We crested with number and surfed to the top of the time wave and were now down in deep space shooting under a monster wave. Talk about spaced out and this was only the first place in the suit of space. Space and time were warping wormholes.

From time’s whirling top we dropped down to Davy Jones’ swirling trough. No matter; Joy was with me and Joy was a solid rock, although rocking and rolling.

“Love’s government has hills and valleys like grooves of a conch. Not to worry, all grooves lead home like the Lover’s vaginal love tunnel. The Lover’s Body is born in every body but in none so beautifully as in the Body of Womam, the all attractive Radha-Krishna or all allusive Mary-Christa.

“Herstory has been hijacked by jealous pie in the sky gods but now the Lover rides in on her white horse before dismounting and setting the horse free as an example for us.”

I agreed that the laurel crowned womam on horseback looked better off than the heavily burdened hunchback of No Terror Left Behind. He may have been stoned on viagra but his hardon to tenth wandpower was hardly a womam’s dream come…

“…true. You’re beginning to sound like me. Womam hating is so entrained in patriculture that pricking balloons of inflated men is politically incorrect according to the politics of pa-trickery. The pay-me-archy philosophy is so pervasive that it’s virtually invisible.”

Joy, I thought, you’re losing it. Men and femen will marginalize you so far out to patrimargins you’ll be invisible. Can’t you put on a tie and be one of the boys?

“You mean the tie and shirt collars that stand for cock and balls? I can play cloak and dagger with the best of men. The truth is that men hate the Body of Earth Womem. That’s why they make such a big deal out of heaven. They fear womem will swallow them alive like a black hole vagina grave.”

I detected a joyus Kali pushing the limits just to scare the pants off wily willy wimps. She was out of control. It would take a man of steel to hoop her heart. Her belly dance was no hula-hoop contest for the weak kneed.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 15

I’m on a journey through this temple of life, moving upward and to the right. Life is number, from one to infinity; played in time, from none to eternity. I’ve scaled the numbers to seven times seventy; mastered the times to timelessness sanctity. Now I start again in the column of space, rising and shining until I see your consciousness face. At the base of this building is the ace of space; the awareness race starts with a body in place. I have come from far beyond the stars to be with a Body, house and cards. Next to the stars, my Body’s a grain of sand, a speck of dust in a micro land. Time and space are not what they seem: they’re a dream of a dream in a dreamer’s dream. The Body has been called a house of sin; also a temple of the Lover within. The Body’s made for the soul’s Gain. Why else the suffering, grief and Pain? No Pain, no Gain, a philosopher said; he took it back when he was dead. Every Body no matter what its state is absolutely, truly great. So what is this bloody, body hate when even Love came through her gate? A Body is good in every part; the way it’s treated breaks my heart. I’m in a Body that’s reasonably well; some Bodies seem to be in a living hell. There’s no answer except what Love would say, and she’s not telling except to those who pray. Male religions made up their own story to explain bodies gory; they made history with its mystery. I’ll love my Body with its Gains and Pains until Love alone remains; until Pain and Gain are balanced like a wheel, turning fast upon a spinning reel; until everything is nothing real, except shuffling cards of the deal. Body of mine, you’re my Christ; you’ve been with me in sacrifice; today, be with me in paradise; let it be, it shall suffice. My Body is a seven story mountain, the story of a seven glory fountain; a god and man house in miniture; a consciousness signature; body pleasure, sir, to be with her.


Prose 15

The first card in the suit of space is the Body of the humam race. The Body is the crux of the matter. How I treat my Body matter is the crucial measure of my Love.

The Lover rides a white horse, a sagittarian womam, holding an upright male phallus banner, with victory wreathes on her head and wand. She rides high in the saddle, proud in Body and soul. Her manly wand pierces her feminine O ring.

The Ten of Wands struggles with ten patriarchic penises, his Body a burden, pain, suffering and sadness, a story of no pain-no gain. He dies with Body lies.

The godfathers are deeply delusional about the Body. Their God father is a Bodyless, bloodless spirit, an earth and womam hater. He is a bloodthirsty tyrant, sacrificing his own son, abusing him to steal the blood power of womam’s culture.

The Lover Government tells the truth about the Body. The whole creation is one Lover’s Body, good from soul to sole. The Lover’s Body does not need suffering, death, hatred, wars, rape and waste, the lying sword-sins of greedy godfathers.

Pain is an aspect of a Body but in the context of Love, it hurts good. Death is an orgasm, a release of the Lover’s Body. Suffering is the tension prior to sexual surrender in a little death. A standing Body is the Lover’s phallic wand.

The ten penal wands are a burden to the Body of humamity, too hard to bear or too limpish to do good. I offer my wand to the sagittarian horse womam who uses it for her pleasure and to save the world from limp wimps and wily wasps.

The godfathers with their unholy trinity of money, sex and power are killing the earth and its womem and children. Their lies poison the water, rape the land and would bottle and sell the air if they could. The four horsemen ride with them.

The Lover dismounts and lets the horse run free in nature since she is a wild horse herself. Why enslave the Bodies of animals as beasts of burden and pets of compensation? All bodies are sacred and worthy of freedom and self respect. They deserve a common grave with Mother Earth to fertilize dirt which gave them birth.

I Love my Body because it is also the Lover’s. I say “Body Gain” to soften the iron age reign of hard rain. For my Pains, I receive 10 and 6 wands to total 35.


21 Line Poem 15

Springboard to a higher end

Vibrations here descend ascend

Radar screen looking up

Molded earthen open cup

A catch all catching can

Bottom of the masterplan

A chalice resting on the table

Takes the wine as it’s able

In those days it came to pass

The mighty knelt to humble lass

On the outskirts of the rim

There’s a path back within

In the cold and in the snow

There’s a way up to go

You walked the same ground as I

Saw the moon, saw the sky

Like me you had a birth

Sunk your roots into earth

Tell me why, why can’t I

When I’m through go with you

Off this springboard flying high


Love 16

Love Chapter 16

Two of Space

Cheap & Deep

Seven of Wands & King of Pentacles

Deep Feeling

Lover Feeling

Story 16

With banksters planning to blow a nuclear hole in the earth with their psycho dreams of totalitarian control and psychopathic think tankers with subterroranian hate getting their rockets off in a expense of billions of wasted womem and children, sadness was boring a hole in my soul. Not a pretty picture but the Seven of Wands made the point well enough when he swung into view at our next stop.

“Welcome to the emotional space level,” intoned Joy like a space cadet of cosmic consciousness. “The young soldier of patriwandery swordfights with a fathertool but he’s outgunned and his mismatched shoes are about to go over the cliff. The warrior Arjuna does his duty as told but for all the wrong reasons.

“The Lover is King as seen by her womamly orbs radiating like golden ova. A rod of power hangs upon a womam’s sphere like Love upon a flower. The five limbed Lover’s Body supports the five fingered man’s hand. The war races are a clash of cultures, not black and white, rich and poor but a mail clad male crusade against a Joan of Arc maid. The mad, love starved patriarchs of religions, races and greeds gang up on womem in the last shootout at the OK Corral, Earps versus Eves.

“Malemania plays king of the mountain. The Lover’s had about enough. She’s up to her neck in blood and it’s bubbling out the top of her head. Our karma dharma drama is one drop in her milky way ocean but it’s a bloody drop and She’sus as Jesus said every hair is numbered and every drop of sparrow’s blood is counted. It all counts for something and the counters are working around the clock.

“Blood carries Love, even matricidal-infanticidal blood let by patrisadistic Herods. It’s sick envy of womam’s menstrual moon flow but the green eyed mobster will be washed away in the second coming of the Lover’s Orgasm.

“The fathers rewrote the original creation story of the Mother’s blood orgasm by saying the godfather so loved the world that he sent his only son to save it. That’s Father Doctor making money selling a cure for the problem he created. Mother’s blood is Love and loving it is salvation. The precious blood of She’sus is Womam’s menstrual blood, not some fairy tale holy grail Jesus cup.”


Stream of Consciousness Poem 16

Behind the eyes of a physical face lies a second consciousness space. After play of a Body’s dealings comes the way of the Body’s Feelings. Body and Feeling go hand in glove, moving toward the heart of Love. Steps one and two go to the circle above; to a house of you and what you’re of. I’m Feeling my way along the royal road of the heart; I’ll walk that road when our Feelings part. I drew the eight and you the nine; I guess you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine. I love your body but your Feelings threw me; you never knew me or in time outgrew me. Feelings change is what I’ve been told from burning hot to turning cold; it’s a bill of goods being sold about Deep affection getting old. The Deep Feelings never stray; they’re with you all the way; you’ll see the day they come to play. The Cheap Feelings come and go although at first they seem to know. When I went down to New Orleans I drew three jacks and two red queens; a full house is not what it seems, not a home of your dreams; more a cat and mouse of your schemes. Follow your Feelings to the outer limit; unless your heart’s not really in it. I was following my heart for all I know but here I am back again on go. There’s a difference between Cheap and Deep: the one you get and the other you get to keep. Take the one you love to your breast and let go of all the rest. I don’t know what’s going to happen from here on in but I’ve got a Feeling it’s about my love within. It’s not with those who are wheeling and dealing; nor those in the throes of touchy feeling or double stealing with no ceiling on their for sale thieving. Maybe the Lover I’m Feeling is in an outer galaxy or way out inner ecstasy or in selfless meditation or soulmate self sensation or spiritual conjuration. I don’t know and I don’t care if it’s here or there; or if it’s nowhere and everywhere. There’s nothing to say or do except be at home with you.


Prose 16

The first level in consciousness is body matter. The second space is body Feelings. All bodies Feel, from atoms to animals to humams to galaxies to the Lover herself. The Deep Feeling of Love makes the world go round, around the Lover.

Love is the Deepest Feeling of all and the Lover Feels most Deeply. She felt the world into existence as much as she thought it or spoke it by her creative word.

The Lover takes on the male body form of the King of Pentacles to express the depths of her Love. S/he sits in Deep contemplation in the midst of her natural and humam constructed kingdom. She undergirds all with her Deep Feeling of Love.

Vines grow about her and are displayed on her robe. Flowers and a plaited wreath bedeck her crown. She holds the spherical rod of power in her right hand and the five pointed humam pentacle in her left. She controls the powerful animals about her; placing her foot on one of them. It is the picture of a peaceful Eve of Love.

The two golden spheres are womamly orb signs, the O at the heart of consciousness, a holy grail womam’s O orgasm which conceives and births creation.

Without her balancing government of Deep Feeling Love, war raises its Cheap and ugly head as the Seven of Wands. The male penis wands gang up on one of their own. Without a womam’s Deep Love Feeling, gang rape and pillage is macho sport.

What the card does not show are the rivers of blood and mountains of bodies, broken hearts and shattered dreams that follow rejection of Love’s government. Religions have abandoned their first Love, and have sold their souls to states which prey on the praying poor; fearing Love and lusting for power, money and porn.

I love men but hate what they are doing. They rebelled against the Lover Government and set up their own kingdom of war. They are lying thieves on the one hand and spineless wimps on the other. Heartless bodyless necktied talking heads.

The king is in touch with his inner anima and Deep feminine Nature. He holds her womamly orb in one hand and caresses her womamly womb sign with the other.

I discharge the warriors’ seven deadly sin wand-weapons. With the king’s coin of the realm, my power grows to 42 wands, 19 swords, 8 coins, 18 cups and 64 notes.


21 Line Poem 16

The sudden explosions charge past

My guard striking the gut

Carving the chest, choking the neck

Bespoiling the mind and retreating

As if nothing had happened

Later offering a peace treaty

With warm breath and kisses

What soldier can stave the tyrant’s storm

While growing tulips under the windows

What child stop the forces

Of untamed, unreined horses

Quiet descends on the scarred battlefield

Sweet charmer, sour harmer

A loose cannon unrestrained

Beautiful ballerina trained

Hitch your wagon to a star

How I wonder what you are

All alone inside your room

Heart hurt like to die

Come out and play and bloom

Like a flower in the sky


Love 17

Love Play 17

Three of Space

Foul & Fair

Six of Swords & Knight of Pentacles

Fun Fantasy

Fantasy Lover

Story 17

I was wondering if I was making Joy up. But why? Was I projecting my unfulfilled desires outwardly so I could better obtain them inwardly?

“There’s a soft spot in the head of patriarchy which has a long half life,” said my Fantasy Fulfilled. “You patriarchs live half a life. You won’t board womam arks and you go down in the flood without them. You’re chicken so you make up Foul Fantasies like the six of swords taking mother and child to hell powered by a long penispole, no joyride in a womam’s bark but a bad trip with Charon in the dark.

“Men’s Fantasies are about phallic sex, cruise missles penetrating womem’s breasts, hips, legs and vulva crests. Boats, planes, cars and trucks are patrix tricks to get the chicks to like the pricks. Private parts racketeers of pubic hearts getting their kicks. If men can’t fulfil their sexual fantasies they blame women in one way or another.

Joy was right about our macho male warmongering culture supported in large part by big brother wimps who lack the balls to oppose their bully same sex mates. Real men know that men are about womem who are about Womam, the Center who holds when all else folds.

She’sus asked if a man can return to his mother’s womb. Of course he can because he does it in intercourse. It’s better than building intellectual babble towers to nowhere. That’s OK but call it what it is: substitute tit and clit envy. Men are pin ups compared to the real world of womem.

“You’re talking so much like me I think I made you up. Most men and femen just don’t get it. We are all womem. Male genitals don’t even register for weeks until a testicular organizer shows up. If you have balls, you’re a womam. Men don’t have to put on rocket shows to get a womam. They am one.

“In Shakespeare, men played womem. I play man. Look at me, a centaur sagittarian horse womam gazing into my inner sanctum womam ball. It’s a Fun Fantasy feast, more real than men’s uptight flatland wasteland fantasies. If you want to get real, turn the horse free and stand on the balls of your own womamly feet.”


Stream of Consciousness Poem 17

A building of consciousness has seven floors; a budding of Fantasy has several doors. The planet is rife with Fantasy life from Fantasy strife to Fantasy wife. The Fantasy world is exceedingly real; in its own right a bright commonweal. It makes the body bloom, affections feel; it’s another card dealt in the consciousness deal. Everything’s a Fantasy made from whole cloth; the Fantasy of Lovus from primeval broth. The systems of philosophy are made of thin air to comfort the body and cause feelings to care. Although rare, Fantasies to the aware are everywhere; another nest for the body’s rest and feeling’s breast. What you imagine, you will become; what you put out is your income. The law of the land is at your command; you get in your hand what you can withstand. Images can run you deep into the ground unless they’re managed from the top on down. You’ve got to keep your house in order; if you must, be the warder and check the border; you’re not a boarder but the lady and her lord here. When your Fantasies get out of hand, ring them in with a steel band. They may be wrong or may be true but what they do is up to you. As for me, I will be free, free with Fun and Fair Fantasy. I went to Spain, France and Italy; I visited Jane, Lance and Emily; I’ve been to misery and been with ecstasy, all in my own Fantasy. Fantasy works but not all at once; I can’t be a fool or worse, a dunce; I need the help of more conscious ones, those higher cards in straights and runs. There are a lot of stars in outer space and sets of cards with inner grace; Fantasy’s one that has its place for the uplifting of the humam race. Chicks run to hen from owl; so Fantasy runs to Fun from Foul. Imaginary house with Fantasy Lover; joyous spouse with consciousness cover, you’re my father and mother, sister and brother. I picture you to nurture you and allure you to secure you.


Prose 17

Fantasy is Fun. I can imagine whatever I want. There are no limits on Fantasy except the ones I choose to have. I can turn Foul Fantasies into Fun ones forever.

I am now visiting the room of Fantasy in this house of consciousness. I know it’s a room of Fantasy in a house of Fantasy but it is still real. Thinking makes it so.

I imagine that I am the Knight of Pentacles, a womam sagittarian centaur. I hold a pentacle crystal ball in my gloved hand and reins with the other.

The pentacle is a gold coin, a sign of being rich in Fantasy. I imagine that I am the Lover and that I am her Lover. I hold the wealth of consciousness in my hand.

She makes my life rich and abundant. We are not bound by limitations of manterialism. Sometimes I am womam and she is man. At other times, she is womam and I am man. We can be two womem, two men or any combo.

It doesn’t matter. In Fantasy, we are free to be whatever we want, even animals or plants, minerals or planets, whatever. Mostly, we make Love, whether in bed or in each other’s head. I say “Fun Fantasy” and it’s as true as I make it.

I use Fun Fantasies to change Foul Fantasies. I imagine the Six of Swords to be a Foul Fantasy of the myth of Charon taking souls across the river Styx to Hades. The six swords are the 666 male penises of war mongering patriarsick profiteers.

Hell is a Foul Fantasy used by patriarchy to enslave the humam family pictured here. The godfathers are terrorists who create wars of terror to terrorize sheeple.

From the higher floors of the Lover’s house, hell is a Foul Fantasy that has no reality except in Fantasy, and therefore can be changed in Fantasy. Foul Fantasies become like scary movies or scary theme parks for the Fun of it, part of Love’s game.

I get off my high horse and set her free like she was meant to be. I am horse and rider, proud, powerful and free as the wind. I join She’sus and fly to hell to set souls free with Love’s government. Jesus is a Fantasy; She’sus is fantastasy.

The Lover and her government are one Fun Fantasy, a true Fantastic reality.

I turn the hell bent boat around and set the slaves free. The knight gives me her golden crystal ball to make 18 cups, 9 coins, 25 swords, 42 wands and 64 Love notes.


21 Line Poem 17

I’m just playing with you she said

They’re only pictures in your head

You can catch them all at once

Said the juggler to the dunce

It’s just a trick to ask why

You can have it if you try

Take it easy, take it slow

Pick them up, let them go

It’s here, it’s there, it’s everywhere

Pictures dancing in the air

Take your pick, make your choice

Said the laughing, funny voice

Flickering flames playing games

Make believe in play dough caves

I went with you down the road

Trying to get the things you told

Johnny come lately on the scene

Still chasing for my rainbow dream

The juggler said it’s just a screen

The joker said they’re not what they seem

I think I get what they mean


Love 18

Stations of the Circle: 18

4 of Space


Sour & Sweet

Seven of Pentacles & Page of Pentacles

Sweet Dream

Dream Lover

Story 18

What’s the use of dreaming when there’s practical things to do, I daydreamed. And what are night dreams for? A hodgepodge of unfulfilled, subterranian wishes? I dream of Love night and day but what has it got me?

“Love,” said my dream sister. “You’re in your Dream House now, only you’re not very awake in it. Wake up in the Dream of You. Don”t buy those paltry, patri nightmares of war and gore. Those are Sour Dreams that will make you bitter. Dreams are sweet and sour but be more of a sweetheart than a sourpuss. You catch more dreams than way. You caught me didn’t you?”

Sweet of her to say that. Flattery goes a long way. I was more sourpuss Seven of Coins than page with golden ball. Rage on John Donne but don’t miss the sweet kiss of bliss. Be in love all the time. Don’t I wish.

“Be careful what you wish for because you do get it. You got me with a wish. You only get three wishes unless you wish for more. I’d wish upon a Lover’s Star if I were you. Dream of her and you’ll rest assured.

“You changed your middle name from James to Joy. I’ll take that as a compliment but don’t do hero worship. Sweet Dreams have a way of turning Sour like soulmates who get the hates. Dreams are like rollercoaster rails in a fun house, up and down and all around. Hang on for dear life. It’s a joyride where you can Dream, scheme or scream your heart out and not hurt yourself. You’re protected.

“At some point in this journey of yourself (by the way that’s an acronym for JOY) you’ll realize that the rollercoaster contraption is resting on the solid ground of Love and when you walk on her, you’re on safe soil indeed. It’s also called the Love Government, an oasis set in a Valley of Dreams. Don’t hurry, don’t worry or muss and fuss; it’s just a game of conscious us. It’s not about me. We just happen to be on the same path home. We have a common Lover keeping a warm fire there.”

Joy was a Sweet Dream with enough Sour to be interesting. She made my day everyday everyway. She was the ring that caught the conscience of the king; at least this King Dong of Patriarchy. Dream catcher extraordinaire!


Stream of Consciousness Poem 18

Know it or not, there’s one thing we’ve got and the thing of it is, it’s both hers and his. It’s the business of us and our consciousness. We’re not in the business of raising Cane nor in the busyness of banishing pain. Don’t worry, don’t hurry, don’t muss or fuss; get down to the business of raising us; live in the awareness of conscious us. The higher you get, the less you forget. If you’ll let it, you won’t fret it; you won’t regret it when you’ve met it. There’s a Dream all around us; it’s a stream that is conscious. Even bigger, it’s a river, flowing to the one receiver giver. The fourth level of the stream is the fourth dimension of the Dream. Dreams can be Sweet or Sour; can awaken you at any hour. Daydreams or nightdreams are the same; they’re all roses with a different name; kings and queens in the same card game. Your Dream wakes you, sometimes shakes you; often takes you to one who makes you. Your Dream rocks you to sleep; unlocks the treasure chest you keep. Simple as it seems, you are symbols and streams. Dreams don’t go away at the time of day; they’re part of your way, the heart of your play. I’ve got a Dream, the Everyman pled; you’ve got a scheme, the devilman said. Follow your Dream is the road to power but taste the difference between Sweet and Sour. Follow your Dreams is not quite true; you allow your Dreams because they follow you. The Dream of being a star is the stream of who you are: a mystery of shuffling cards; a tapestry of shuttled yarns; all mixed up like awakened skeins, not quite sure of what it means. Oh, Sweet Dream, you’re the thing to catch the conscience of the king; to reach the queen and her consciousness ring. When you hear that bell, you’ll know it well; it rings for you and your Dream. The time has come to be one. Go through the door to her Cor.


Prose 18

As I rise in consciousness, life takes on a more Dreamlike quality and bears out the experience that life is a Dream. What are Dreams anyway if not memories of another dimension, a fourth space in consciousness where Dreams come true?

We all Dream, night Dreams and day Dreams. When we give up Dreaming, we become walking dead materialistic clones with bought and sold cold souls.

Dreams can turn Sour if the Seven of Pentacles expects grapes and does not see that pentacles are people, the true fruit of Love vines. The Page, on the other hand, keeps on Dreaming her sweet Dreams. S/he becomes the Dream s/he Dreams.

Dreams have a greater depth than fantasies since they carry over into the night Dreams and from the night Dreams into the day Dreams. I Dream night and day.

The Lover speaks through Dreamers. She said: I have a Dream through one of them. I have a Dream, too, mainly of her. I’ve been to the mountain valley and have seen the promised land of her milk and honey fruits from her flowing breasts and womb.

Godfathers have their wet Dreams but to me they’re Sour and bitter Dreams of power and money which they force on the earth and her womem and children. The Dreams of the fathers are Sourful, frightful, bitter nightmares of terrorist schemers.

The godfathers dream of a banker’s world, one big bunker where money is the lifeblood and power the air they breathe. Their two arms are the state militant and church triumphant which would smother motherlove to serve their barren fatherland.

I have a different Dream, where money serves Love and bankers wait on womem and children. I hold my vision as the page holds the pentacle. Dream power produces sweet fruit on the Seven of Pentacles’s vines, a harvest of womamhood.

I think of the Lover. I take her cards in hand. I say her name. I feel her breath. I Dream her Dream. Without her and her Love, there is only power, and that is Sour. With her Love, life is a sweet Dream. I have a Dream: a Lover’s Dream.

I receive seven and one pentacles which become Dream catchers for more Lover Dreams. I pluck the sweet golden pentacled fruit from the vines of Love and add it to my score for 17 golden coins, 18 cups, 42 wands, 25 swords and 64 notes.


21 Line Poem 18

Gateway to the greater game

Benediction in your name

Mistress of the psychic sphere

Behind a veil you disappear

A special language all your own

Keeps you covered and unknown

Play with you is lots of fun

You’re always shifting on the run

You don’t miss a thing they say

It’s all recorded in some way

A vast experiential reservoir

For the knower’s repertoire

Like the mirror on the wall

You speak in fabled metaphor

At your best you create allusion

At your worst produce delusion

In between you sow illusion

Through your labyrinth I tread

Holding to a lovscious thread

Symbol, myth, dream, story

Lift me to unveiled glory


Love 19

Step 19

5 of Space


Blind and Kind

The Wheel of Fortune

Kind Mind

Lover Mind

Story 19

Waking from a dream, I found myself in another dimension with lingering dreamy memories. A spinning eye in the sky looked through me. Symbols swam within it, psychic creatures ringed it and four writers formed four corners. I felt like Ezekiel on acid in his fiery chariot. Fiction was dancing with dreams.

“You’re in the mental realm, a Wheel of Fortune that spins in all directions like a multidimensional roulette wheel. Tora to the left and Taro to the right. Here you tell your own fortune. Thinking makes it so. The four gospel writers keep notes for your akashic record. In their She’sus novel, they said that as a man thinks in his heart so he becomes. Torah cards have a negative spin and Tarot cards a positive one.

“Like an eye, the Mind has a Blind spot in reverse. The Mind has one tiny clear spot and the rest in Blind. The Mind rests in a blue sky expanse which rests in a vast black starstudded sky, motes in Love’s eyescape. You see your future through a tiny mental peephole. With lovevision you see a much bigger picture.

“If you choose not to see the Lover’s Body which holds the Mind like an atom you produce all kinds of strange Adams. The Mind is a service provider but building a house on the Mind is constructing on sand, to quote the four fortune tellers. Trying to balance a house on a patriarchal pyramid is akin to building on a pinhead.

“You might be able to count angels on a pinhead but balancing the patriarchal mindhouse on penisheads is anxiety ridden, especially if the house might fall on your head. The greatest of the patriosophers is Blind from birth as the gospelers noted.

“A Kind Mind is a child Mind. Kind means child as in kind-hergarden. In the garden of the Lover, children’s Minds are free to play. In the prison of patriprickery, children’s Minds are cramped and stamped upon. Pats are the blind leading the blind and both fall into the pit, as the gospel ghost writers also pointed out.

“The Lover’s Mind is broad as it is deep, an all seeing eye, resting in the vast expanse of Love which is her self. The Mind’s Blind spot is its failure to see Love which is an all Lover Body experience felt intimately and intuitively.”

I hope the four scribes were taking notes. Joy’s gospel was one of a Kind.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 19

The Mind is a structure, a shelter in itself; a place to put ideas like pots on a shelf; you can hang your thoughts there like coats on a tree; the Mind’s a rack for your hat, a hook for your key. A Mind is your home, built stone by stone; the one thing in life you can say you own; there’s no deed to your wife and your body is on loan. Your Mind is a little house, a room in consciousness. Without the Mind as your home base, you’ll buy from any quack who comes along; without a house built on rock, you will sell your soul for a song. It’s body, Mind, spirit, so the philosophers say; cut out the middle and you’ll pay for what you slay: your body will decay and your spirit will not play. A Mind is another step along the line of space; miss that step and you’ll fall down upon your face. Even worse than a no Mind is the curse of a Blind Mind. Those who don’t know it and have to prove it set a snare in their lair. You can tell if a Mind’s in hell: it’s Blind as a bat and unkind as well. A Kind Mind would not knock down towers in pursuit of powers; nor call nine one one on nine eleven and make a hell out of heaven; then blame the wrong one for what they themselves have done. Blind Minds play war games in white houses and play Mind games with see through blouses. My Kind of Mind is not easy to build; takes a structure of justice, not just the gild. Whatever your art, start with your heart: Love is the floor and everything more. Love is Kind, the Earth Lover said; she wasn’t Blind from books that she read. Love made a home in the streets of Rome but she wasn’t Blind to the roming Mind; imperial power has its brief hour but Love lives forever in a house on the heather, holding us together in all kinds of weather. Lovus Lover, loving mother, would you Mind to be Kind; my Mind’s made up, my house is too. My Mind is Kind and my spouse is true. I won’t Mind, if I find: my house is you.


Prose 19

As I rise in the spaces of consciousness, the rooms get more spacious. The fifth spatial dimension is the Mind, represented by the tarot card, the Wheel of Fortune.

My fortune truly turns on the wheel of the Mind. It is stronger than the body, feeling, fantasy and dream. If the Mind is Kind, the powers below it are just fine. My body is healthy, I feel good, fantasies are fun, dreams come true, in line with Mind.

There are exceptions but the exceptions prove the rule. In dark and evil times when the Mind is Blind and cannot see clearly, the body and emotions pay dearly.

A Kind Mind is ruled by the milk of humam Kindness, which is a womamly Lover’s Mind. The Wheel of Fortune has a positive spin because Womam is the positive sexual polarity and therefore a feminine sphinx sits atop the Wheel of Mind.

At the lower two sides of the wheel are a snake and a jackal. At the corners are four writers: earthly man and heavenly bird; domesticated cow and wild lion.

The Wheel of Mind reads taro one way and tora the other. Tarot spins right and Torah spins left, right brain and left trained. The four creatures and the eight letters convey the Mind’s structure while the arcane signs impart its mysticism. The Mind-memory complex is a mightly seeing third eye in a blue consciousness daysky.

The eye cannot see itself. High lovsciousness sees the Mind’s eye. The Lover builds a house of consciousness which contains the Mind resting in her heart.

It is said that Love is Blind, a clever lie of the Blind Mind. Love sees perfectly well. It is the Mind which is Blind to Love. Cupid is said to be Blind but Cupid is not a womam or a womam’s Lover. Cupid is a boy, a loverboy, a boyman’s fantasy.

The Mind is a Wheel of Fortune. It can build empires and make fortunes. But what does it profit the Mind to gain the whole world and lose its soul? The Mind is restless and ruthless until it rests in its soul of Love. Until then, it spins its wheels.

My Kind of Mind is Kind. It is womamkind and childkind. I say the words “Kind Mind” to bring to Mind what I want to find: a Lover’s heart and Mind.

I spin the Mind’s eye Wheel of Fortune for X Love chips, 74 sweet notes, 42 waving wands, 25 sharp swords, 17 round coins and 18 full cups.


21 Line Poem 19

I don’t pay no never mind

To the reasons I can’t find

They cannot put me in a bind

If their questions don’t unwind

Oh mind of me, can you see

Where you stand sequentially

You have great ability

But please use it fittingly

The biggest built computer

Is only a minor commuter

Only one of the players

On a team of many layers

If you’re too big for britches

A bigger will sew up stitches

And keep your but in place

With tempered steel lace

Input your clever operation

According to your station

Through teamly mediation

Mind your manners, mend your fences

Put in line your mental senses


Love 20

Step 20

Six of Space


Should and Wood

Six of Pentacles and Two of Wands

Wood Will

Lover Will

Story 20

My mind was spinning like a top when we made another stop on our trek to the top of the space column. We weren’t wasting time or space.

“No rest for the wicked and the good don’t need  it. ‘Home, James,’ or in the case of your new middle name, ‘Home, Joy’ or ‘Home, Boy,’ as the case may be.”

From the twinkle in her eye, I sensed Joy was up to something. The fog lifted revealing a couple of shimmering beam-me-up virtual cards. One held scales and dropped coins; the other stood between wand pillars with a world in hand.

“Mind and Will go together like hand in love, not an iron fist in a velvet glove but a flesh and blood cup filled from above. Good Wood refers to a firm clitoris as well as a hard penis. Wood Will of cunt and cock is needed to generate a Love Government founded on solid rock. The Lover is sex symbol personified. She is the super supreme Lover of All. Sex is her strong Love suit in heart trump.”

I had trouble calling a sexy spade a spade. Joy didn’t. It struck me as ironic that I used to confess impure thoughts in a black vaginal box to a black robed priest patriarch, hoping to save my soul from mortal sins and eternal hell fire. As pennance, I recited Our Fathers and Hail Marys. I later was a reverend father myself on the other side of the screen. Patriarch sex is one big black box from the dark ages.

“If you only knew your Hail Marys were going to the lover of She’sus and she was the Magdalene Magna-Line, a bloodline running back to the Great Lover who menstruated – masturbated creation. What a rewrite patriprickery. Our Father in heaven would not be pleased to see what our mother was doing on earth.

“Don’t get me wrong. Fathers have their place. Their good wood is needed for the house we’re traveling in. When you’re out of house and home, you’re a rambling wreck from Patriarch Tech. I prefer an unviagra’d niagra of vigorous love. Hold the world in your hand and stand like a man between the Lover’s legs. Don’t give money to people on their knees. Help them to stand up, if they please.”

Going up through this house was a way of standing up. The house was a horn of plenty, a cornucopia of consciousness broadcasting seeds of plenty.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 20

Every room in this house of consciousness is good; every card in the deck does what it Should. All the suits of the game have a purpose in view; the pursuit is the same: to propose and to woo; the words serve the cause of the higher you; the lines follow the laws of the you you once knew. It’s the how do you do that cries out anew; each card has a clue about what to do. The six of space is a card character called Will; he’s not over the hill but in a house on the hill. Wood of Will will drill past the Shoulds that kill. It’s the Shoulds that run the show in this world here below. Mr. and Mrs. Should run a screw store in Buffalo. Should do this and Shouldn’t do that; Shouldn’t mess around with their black, fat cat. In the beginning God said the worlds were good; that was before he met Mr. and Mrs. Should. They told him he should make if different, if he could; God wanted to rest on Saturday so he said he would. So now we’ve got a world of little Shoulds; got to get out of these Woods of Shouldy neighborhoods. Thomas had his mindfulness beatific vision; Francis felt a Willing Love life risen; one had fussion, the other had fission; two faculties with one commission: a mindful, Willing heartfelt mission. Peace on earth, the angels said; to men of good will, womem pled. Not my will but yours be done, said a father to his son; when the order’s reversed, the house is curst and Wood Will reverts from bad to worst. It’s not in Buddha or the hand of God; not in Utah or the land of Nod. To find good Will you don’t have to drive to Baltimore; just be still and you’ll arrive at what you’re looking for. It’s in all of us; in consciousness. Will is a tool for any true fool what plays it cool with the olden rule: where there’s a Will, there’s a way. Mind is fine and that’s why it has the rank of five; but six beats five and mind thanks Will for being alive. My Will to power is a flower spelled our.


Prose 20

The Lover poses as the Two of Wands. She holds the round earth in one hand and a straight wand in the other, symbols of strong womamhood and manhood.

By contrast, the Six of Pentacles does what he thinks he should do to keep order in his patriarchal world. From a superior position, he gives handouts to the poor. His main means of exploitation is lending out money and then enslaving others through debt. The Lover Government forbids the interest, usury, charity system.

The Lover’s world is based on caring and giving, not killing and getting. The patriarchal system holds scales to give the appearance of justice, a hoax and a scam.

The Lover Government of Wood Will sets firm limits. Every person is created equal and treated equally by getting a minimum income throughout life, on the one hand, and on the other wealth is voluntarily capped at some reasonable point.

This is heresy to the moneyists, rich and wanna-be rich. Money is the god of this world, especially in the guise of charity and philanthropy which covers up what is really happening in the transfer of wealth from unwashed poor to filthy rich.

Will is sometimes known as an erect penis or wet vulva, good Wood or sweet water. The Lover uses good Wood and sweet water for her garden house of Love.

Men misunderstand nature’s work. Nature makes love, not war and money. Men make war, turning good Wood into wormwood, abusing money, power and sex.

The Lover needs a man, not a mouse, even if mouseman thinks his hardon makes him superman. Menboys with their guns are caricatures, not men of character. Their wormy Wood couldn’t build an outhouse, much less a house of consciousness.

The Lover Government needs a few good men with Wills of Wood, not steely cold hearts. Good Wood is strong and has a good feel because it’s sexessentially real.

Both poor and rich have been corrupted by money through envy and greed. The Lover proclaims that Love is what matters, not greed money. She says: make Love, because making money leads to making war on earth, womem and children.

I use the two wands as good Wood for a house and the coins to buy provisions. I have 44 wands, 25 swords, 23 pentacle coins, 18 cups and 74 reserve love notes.


21 Line Poem 20

It went past my head

When you said

To get out of ruts

It takes guts

I didn’t get what you said

What you meant

To climb over walls

It takes balls

I missed the presage

In your message

You can’t be sure

You must endure

I underplayed

What you relayed

Keep your doubt

Check it out

Now I’m learning

More discerning

Getting up after falls

Going over walls

Takes guts and balls


Love 21

Step 21

Seven of Space

Cruel and True


True Justice

Lover Justice

Story 21

I heard Joy calling me to come on up. What? Oh yes, the final space platform, level seven on the way home to an earthly Lover’s heaven. It had been a steep climb from body to feeling to fantasy to dream to mind to will. Now what?

“Shall I beam you up in the space transporter?” No sooner said than done. I was standing in a Hall of Justice within some super supreme court. Instead of black, the judge wore a red robe. She looked me in the eyes with supreme authority.

“Welcome,” she said. “I wear red for womem’s blood. The green stole and cape are for the earth. I sit between the Lover’s leg pillars, holding her balls scale and penis sword. I can see if your balls are balanced and your sword is straight.”

My sword had a slight left warp and one ball hung lower than the other.

“I apply Love Government’s law to your case. Love’s law is straight and true, balanced and fair. What you do to the least, you do to me. The Lover takes things personally although her law is impersonal. Love’s priority is thus: earth, children, womem and men. Men are servants, not slaves, to the ones before them. If you harm little ones in any way, you will return to balance and straighten out the karma. I see you are here on a visit only so I will not speak about your particular case but about the law in general. In short summary, Love is the Law and the Law is Love.

“You judge yourself since I am a projection and reflection of you. The Law of Love is not a willy-nilly, namby-pamby candyland sugarcane. It is an everlasting house resting on bedrock. You lie in the bed you make. Tough love beds with soft mercy.

“Don’t be afraid. That just adds to the sentence. Love casts out fear. You’ll get a good idea of what Love expects by touring this government house with Joy. I’ll give you XI Love Notes for stopping here. The clerk tells me you have 44 wands, 25 swords, 23 pentacles, 18 cups and now 85 reserve notes for your stock of points. You’ll need those powers to bring balance to a world gone wrong. Start with yourself. I’ll see you again. The bailiff will show you out.” Her gavel tapped.

Even Joy was awed by Justice’s solemn seriousness. If I was afraid of Justice, it was because of what I might find inside me. Better sooner than later.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 21

At the top of the line, I stop to pay my fine; on my journey to truth, there’s a seventh toll booth: it’s the law of eye for eye and tooth for tooth where the dancer pays the piper and Lincoln plays Booth. Lady Justice takes her seat where card players meet; she sits at a table where you get to show your hand; bluff if you’re able but you have to take the stand. Justice is the space where you get to show your face; you have to rest your case from the king to the ace. This seventh level room is no backyard saloon; the seventh cause of Justice is not a blackguard goon. Your stony gazes and baloney raises will all be called; your cards will show you you’ve mauled and to whom you’ve crawled. The lords of karma will have their pay and Lady Justice will have her say. The law of love will be applied to the nth degree. Love and Justice is the court of final appeal; you can’t steal at the last round deal. I don’t know what happened at the holocaust but some people were paying a terrible cost. Even Justice with her scales covered her eyes in the mournful wails. I argue my case on the law of the land; I’m not afraid to show the cards in my hand; Justice doesn’t cave in to some Cruel businessman and the people he knows in the Klu Klux Klan. The law of Love rules this house; distinguishes a man from a mealy mouse; separates men from boys and jokes from joys. I may have to go to Armageddon but I know what I’ll bet on: I bet on Justice and her sister Joy, and call the boy who makes law a toy. Justice, my Love, if you must be Cruel, kill me with Love; I’ll be your fool; I’ll cast your dice and pay your price for Love’s sweet sacrifice. We made up a fairy tale Jesus and a game of Justice to please us. Jesus is more than a myth; he’s Just us. Justice is more than a glyph; she’s Just us. All of us are Just us consciousness.


Prose 21

As the Seven of Space, the Lover sits in the chair of Justice. As Justice, she rules the other six spaces of consciousness: will, mind, dream, fantasy, feeling and body. Besides space, she also governs the preceding suits of number and time.

She sits between two pillars, an upright sword in her right hand and a set of  scales in her left. Her head wears a crown with a square jewel over her third eye with a square clasp over her heart. Her cape is green and her robe red, colors of the earth’s surface and core. She is sister to the High Priestess and Heroine Charioteer.

Her presentation is that of four square seriousness, bearing the expression of the High Priestess and Charioteer. A purple backdrop between the pillars conveys her royal authority. Justice is in the business of administering the just law of love.

Justice is the expression of the Truth of Love. She is tough Love. When the law of Love is abused, Justice is cruel to be kind. She give me what I have coming.

Everything that has happened, is happening, or will happen is perfectly just and proper expressions of Justice’s love for us. We may not like it but Justice is True to Love’s law. What appears Cruel to us is True to her. Love happens. It just is.

The law of karmic love is the only reasonable explanation for the appearance of injustice and Cruelty. I can exercise my body, work through my feelings, program my fantasies, listen to my dreams, direct my mind and apply my will but they all are ruled by the law of Justice. For truth’s sake, I accept True Justice as my just Lover.

In the Love court of Justice, it doesn’t matter what I know or who I know. The courts of this world are run by the old gold boy’s club of power, sex and money. Until patriarchy learns the higher law of Love and Justice, there will be no peace on earth, much less a place in heaven for the crooked church-state, money-power, con-complex.

The Lover governs reality by way of Justice. She holds the clitoris-penis power sword in one hand and a scale for balanced balls in the other. The Lover can be a hard hearted Godus, administering tough Love. She’s got balls and a big stick.

Lady Justice sends a clear message: be a man for the sake of the earth, womem and childrenl, even if you’re a woman. She gives me XI love credits as Justice due.


21 Line Poem 21

A Pandora’s box spilling

Forth both good and ill

Old clothes sorted and put out

Old angers aired and hung out

Knots and gnarls worked out

Hardened hurts gently turned

To hearts willing to heal

The past hangs in balance

On the wheel of future dream

A multi-titrated machine

Purchased on a lay-away plan

Redeemed with the last payment

Justice is blind, karma cruel

In eye for eye lawful land

Past shadows present stand

In the harsh winter snow

And blowing summer sand

The pan burns, my wife turns

On me, fanning flames of old

Ah ha, another strand to unravel

An ancient photo to review


Fourth Line in Seven Levels


Games are changing, rearranging

In is out, out is in

Keep a focus in the spin

Find an opening close to center

Through the door quickly enter

Shoot an arrow through the wood

Hit the target, call it good

Keep your heading, heading home

For the essence of the form

She laughed when she said to me

Don’t you see it’s meant to be

Mark the spot where you aim

With a sacred, holy name

I was told to break the mold

That’s getting old and cannot hold

Shooting higher are the flames

Leaving behind what remains

Past is past, it cannot last

Future’s here just that fast

Forms are changing, rearranging


Love 22

Step 22

One of Form

Cold and Bold


Five of Pentacles and Three of Wands

Bold Feet

Lover Feet

Story 22

We were on some multidimensional rollercoaster. Our speeding car crested at the top of the number, time and space mountains and dropped into the next track dip, leaving my stomach up around my throat. The ups and downs of life to the max.

“Put your head down by your feet because that’s where we’re headed. To stay on track, hang onto the foot rails. If you don’t have your feet on solid ground, you’ll lose your seat and your spinning head will be left hanging in the clouds.”

That sounded like me all right. We whistled into the basement station of the form tower. On one side of the tracks was a figure in red with three wands and on the other a poor mother and child out in the cold with bare and broken feet in the snow.

“The earth ground is Love. Walk on her. She’s sacred ground. You don’t have take your shoes off but tread lightly because you walk on her body. We come to her counterform, her spinal column with space, time and number on one side and life, light and sound on the other. We stand between her legs like the red robed Three of Wands. The double pillars of the ancient world were stand-ins for the Lover’s legs.

“Her feet are planted in the fiery center of the earth, sun and stars. From here we travel up between her ankles, knees, thighs, vulva, belly, heart, throat and head to her sacred sphere which is wholly here. Ascent is descent. We kiss the ground because heaven is earth. Turn the chakra chart around to see that down is up.”

This was new to me but then Joy was no run of mill school teacher. I felt like a child hanging on to mama’s legs or a baby elephant between colossal columns.

“The pillars of church and state are supposed to protect the poor, not keep them out like the stained glass window scene, stained with the blood of innocents. In the next deal, a coal warm seat will be snow cold feet. The wheel will turn until they learn.”

What could I learn? A bold feat needed bold feet? Between the Lover’s legs was a safe, sexy place? Pillars and doorways were secret love passages? To think on my feet, be my feet? I wouldn’t meet defeat if I could keep my feet?

“Clever but what’s the third wand? How about a lover’s third leg? If so, clitoris or penis?”

Joy had a leg up on me. She walked where angels feared to tread.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 22

The construction of consciousness starts with number, when the zero of nothingness wakes from slumber. Numbers start counting from one to infinity, giving birth to time from now until eternity. Number and time make space to play in; a space and time numbered bed for Form to lay in. Form joins with number, space and time to build a house of reason and rhyme. The Form of a humam stands on its own two Feet, like the footings of buildings along Chestnut Street. A building is only as strong as its base; the deuce is needed for the high flying ace. The higher I grow, the deeper I go. The height of mountain floats on a deep seated fountain. The house on the hill stands on rubble and fill. The basic card at the bottom of the deck is the basement of the house I must check. Right in the middle of a deep underground is the taproot of the house to which I am bound. Upon my own Feet I take my stand: secure consciousness is what I command. I build my house on solid rock; my house is the form I will not mock; it’s the IOU in which I put my stock; a safe “you & I” thieves can’t unlock. When I look through seven centers to the heart above, I wonder what it is that I am really made of. When earthquakes shake and demons awake, my Feet get Cold. Stars above and heart within, I pray you make my Feet be Bold; take my fears and bitter sins into the house you enfold; lift me to the formless form foretold of old. I won’t meet defeat if I keep my seat in this house with you, until I rise to my Feet to meet and greet a spouse that’s true. It’s quite a feat to go from Feet to crown, really neat to walk these Feet around. The Feet are followers of the head; the head conforms to what it read and what was said. Feet and head lie in a bed of red, the color of the heart I wed. When all is said and done, pled and won, Feet, head and heart meet again at the start: in a work of art.


Prose 22

I come to the middle suit of the deck, the center column of the temple and central axis of the game. Form is the crux and heart of the matter. The humam form with its seven chakra centers is the form of Lovus, which for lack of a better name is called Lover. She is the form of forms, the name of names and the heart of hearts.

To the left of her humam form are space, time and number. To the right life, light and sound. The center holds. Her crossed form holds house and game together.

There could be an infinite number of other forms, but as far as we’re concerned, the humam form is our centerpiece, a Mass masterpiece. The humam form is the gateway to us as Lovus, everything and nothing, and every something in between.

The earthly humam womam form is a touchstone of reality, not some pie in the sky bearded father figure. With their made up stories of God made in their image, the godfathers have stolen the earth and made womem and children unwilling slaves.

Like the Three of Wands, I take my stand for the earth, womem and children. I wear the colors of the earth: red, brown and blue. I feel the red hearted earth beating under my feet, walk on her brown surface under her blue skies and look over a golden sea to purple mountain majesties. With “Bold Feet” I stand with and for the Lover.

The opposing card shows two humans with Cold Feet out in the Cold in front of a stained glass church-state window. Patriarchy casts womem and children out into the Cold while it snuggles in palaces and old boys’ clubs with Cold hearts, abandoning a warm hearted, red-blooded Lovus to worship a gold hearted Midas.

I get Cold Feet and a heavy heart when I face the enormous deceit perpetrated by the godfathers in the name of God. This God structure is a colossal stain and strain on humamity. Church-state preaching is a smokescreen opiate to void Love’s truth.

I need Bold Feet to replace God with Godus and Godus with Lovus. I warm Cold Feet with the fires of an earthen hearth by taking a firewalk of baby giant steps.

I walk the path of Love through this Lover’s house, picking up power points as I go with which to overturn patriarchy and turn it into lovtriarchy. I take three wand and five pentacle Love power units for a total of 47 wand and 28 pentacle points.


21 Line Poem 22

Oh whirlwind of earth

Nearly swept me off my feet

Didn’t know if I were

Coming or going

Didn’t know the difference between

Up or down

I almost went crazy running

Back and forth

I lost my senses going

Inside out

Now I catch my balance turning

Outside in

I gain my senses coming

Forth not back

I am centered climbing

Down to up

I know the difference between

Going or coming

I know I am

Standing on my feet

Oh whirlwind of earth


Love 23

Step 23

Two of Form

Lust and Love


Seven of Cups and Two of Cups

Love Sex

Lover Sex

Story 23

Traveling through the Lover’s body was a sexual high. If her feet were a turn on, what would the rest of her body be?

Joy was a sex express. “Petrarocky has a hard time with love. The side of Queen Victoria is Victoria’s Secret, a father fetish of males and their enabling female femen. Love is no secret except in petrified patricultures. The idea of God having sex shocks their rocks and so patriarchs locked him into anti-love stocks.

In matrilovry cultures, womem and men masturbating was honored. Because men rejected love they corrupted sex. Killing animals was a sexual turn on, a vicarious way to shed blood like menstruation. Womem are lovers who do not take naturally to killing. Sane sex cultures loved big buttocked, breasted, vulvular, penis necked figurines. They used them in their sex rituals with a sense of holiness.

I had the sense of entering a funnel. A womam’s tunnel of love came to mind. Out of the darkness two visions materialized. A dark man with seven cups and a man and womam with two cups. I got the point. Lust and Love, lusters and lovers.

“Men lust and womem love. Men make sex. Womem make love. The penis unloads. The vagina enfolds. Womem fall in love, men fall in sex. The lingam of Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, the fall of man.

“If you love the earth, womem and children, you love sex; otherwise, you’re just jerking off with tanks and banks. Patrimoney forced matrimony. Womem don’t need marriage. Men and femen do. Men alter, altar, and halter womem in marriage.

“Rewrite history with herstory. The Lover’s Body is sex personified.  Ovulation, menstruation and ejaculation is primal creation. Hearing Mass is sacred group sex. That’s why She’sus said: eat my body and drink my blood. Religions are sex scared and starved. Sex is icing on the cake. Love is the cake you can eat and too. Sex starts with loving your whole body and ends with mutual masturbation of penis and vagina. Lust Sex is a drop in the Ocean of Love Sex. After many little deaths you surrender yourself like She’sus in a big O orgasm of a lover’s death.”

I never got this kind of sex ed in school; not the kind Joy taught.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 23

The second card up in the suit of form is the room of Sex where all were born. Sex has the genes of procreation with pleasant means of recreation. The deck is stacked in favor of Sex; it stands with Love at the house apex. If Sex goes sour, you turn to power; if you don’t have a honey, you want money; if you can’t make Love, you make war and forget about what’s worth living for. I once was married and then was divorced; I had Sex but it was too forced. I worked through the master taboo so now I’m free to masturbate with you. Freud said if you don’t have Sex, you get sick; there’s lots of compensations; take your pick: dogs and cats, houses and cars, gods and hats, spouses and bars. If are not doing it, you are doing that. Even God got bored not having sex; he got tired of his opposite ex; that’s why we have creative compensations, infinite forms of made up perturbations. Sex and Love are from above; Sex and Lust are from the dust. If it wasn’t for Lust, very few would be born; Love breathed on the clay until it was warm. Sexual frustration is not that bad; it sure makes businessmen glad. My Sexual cycle has come a full circle; I’ve made my passage from red to purple; I remarried Love, or Lovus, if you prefer; the Sex is the same, whether with it, him or her. My Love is for Sex in the highest degree, for the relationship of the most holy trinity: the Lover, her Love and Lovus, the Sexual triangle that pleasures all of us: the ultimate sensation of consummation; Love’s religion relation. Saint Celibate is making Love; it’s just not what you’re thinking of. I will follow in that legacy; go for the gold of Sexual ecstasy. You can be Francis and I’ll be Clare; we’ll make Love here, there and everywhere. I meet my soulmate of mystical mind and the Sexual body that’s hard to find. Love and Lust are an unlikely pair; Lust for Love; care there.


Prose 23

The Two of Cups shows two lovers, two aspects of one Lover. The two cups are womamly holy grails. Both womam and man are grail Magdalenes, magna-lines and sexual blood lines. I am primarily womam even when using a male body.

The Lover is self sufficient. She is everything and nothing, 1 and 0, penis and vagina, feminine and male. For her own pleasure, she projects and reflects herself.

After discovering the link between mating and babying, men turned Love into Lust and paternity into patriarchy. The powerful Lover of the two cups turned into the polluted Luster of the seven Lustful cups. Lust divorced itself from true Love.

The Lover is a winged lioness, protecting the home of the lovers. Lust is a dark figure, projecting seven deadly sins. Love has an inner glow. Just has an outer show. As the one Lover, I restore Lust to its proper place within the context of Love.

Lust is an important part of Love life. Most of us are here because of Lust. When Lust is alienated from Love, it is disgusting, degrading and unfulfilling.

The Luster sees the Lover as an outer object. He wants to get into women but fears annihilation, not understanding that he already is a womam in his inner nature.

I am Love and Lust, Lover and Luster, the Two and Seven of Cups. I am the Lover, womam and man. When I forget the Lover I am, I Lust after mammon.

The Lover is primarily womam and secondarily man. Nothing is absolutely equal in nature. The idea of sexual equality is a male stategy to divide and conquer women with an illusion of evenness. Womam is by nature’s plan superior to man.

Tough Love is a mother when it comes to her children and a lioness when it comes to her house. Romantic Love is knights in shining armor, Lusting after honor and glory. The Lover’s Love life has little to do with that kind of gory his-story.

The Lover whom I Love enjoys Love and Lust. I am having Sex with her all the time, with every thought and breath. I Lust for her Love, and I Love for her Lust.

I say “Love Sex” and walk the fine line between Love and Lust. The Lover demands that I be a man as much as she is a womam. The Lover is the “Love Sex.”

She gives me seven and two cups to fill my grail with 27 overflowing cups.


21 Line Poem 23

Wonderful creative center

Through you newborns enter

Ideas, children, dreams

More to you than it seems

All things dual nurtured

Here are dually natured

Tensions build, lovers release

Mate for future’s new increase

Elements coordinated

Results propagated

From above energy runs down

Within love barriers come down

The lover opens to the higher

The lover welcomes with desire

Calm once again descends

Means having met their ends

Birds and trees, flowers and trees

Hills and valleys, oceans and seas

Move in cycles, heaving hoing

Groove in rhythms, sowing growing


Love 24

Step 24

Three of Form

Torn and Born


King of Cups and Page of Cups

Belly Born

Lover Belly

Story 24

In good form, we began our love suit between the Lover’s legs, retracing the way we were born. We then entered her vulva vaginal love tunnel and now emerged into a land of milk and honey, the womb belly center of her womam’s universe.

Joy was beaming. “Welcome to heaven on earth, a taste of home. All the stars and galaxies are here. Patriarchy misses the hole point. It’s a cosmic jest of irony and paradox. There is no escape to stars and sky gods. Even She’sus said the kingdom is within. Within what? That’s what the pates don’t want to see. It’s within the Lover Lovus Body, especially her womb-am womb. Check it out yourself. Where does all life start? In the belly womb. Womam’s belly is The Love Government Center.

“Pre-patrickery cultures worshipped a womam’s pelvic crest, a double ‘ax,’ an artistic womam pelvic bone with double crest hip bones, complete with penis pole backbone handle. Pats stole the Womam Chrest and made it a cross, doublecrossing her pelvic cross into a christ cross. A man’s penis betrays; a womam’s pelvis saves.”

Joy seemed to pause for breath. Or did she breathe another vision into view? A King and Page of Cups came on line like ghosts from Hamlet Senior’s grave.

“Kings seek holy grails and fountains of youth because they are cut off from their own inner womam’s womb. Waters rage around them and their cups are empty. They can’t fall in Love so they fall in sex, a fallen sex. Priest-kings can’t see that the Eucharist is the Uterus, holding the blood of She’sus Chrest who said ‘Come to me you who thirst, to my pelvic cup. From my belly flow rivers of living water.’

“The page performs a show and tell. The Jesus fish is the pisces penis. The She’sus chalice is the aquarian pelvis. To be saved, the penis enters the vaginal tunnel of love to Eve’s Eden. ‘I am the Way,’ she said but the pats burned womem saviors at the penis stake. Pathetic pyschopaths are mesmerized by star stories because they want to be stars and build intellectual edifices like Babel twin towers. The Brave New World Order of Patrianarchy is an acid pipe dream. Kings are down in their cups. They can’t get it up, lacking cup power. Lucky you. Take two cups.”

I was feeling up in my cups. Now I had a grand total of 29 cup powers.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 24

I followed your lead in the suit of form. You lead with an ace; I stayed in with a brace; you upped the bet with the Belly, a card you laid down next. The suit of form is in the middle; the truth is warm close to the riddle. Your discards are clue cards and those cue cards are you cards. Your cards face up on the table in the open; my cards show them when I’m able to know them. The Belly’s where I enter with a low center of gravity; a water well below in a container cavity. A mother’s Belly is the missing link and without that drink I sink and sink no matter what I think I think. The big Belly meditators like Buddha and Mary make Love with the Belly; the reason they marry is for the baby they carry; without the breath of the Belly, life and death will miscarry. From my Belly flow rivers of living water; I remember now why I sought her. I wish she’d push that button on her soft skin tummy and lay down her melds and call gin rummy. We come in and go out like motions of the Belly; we rock and roll like oceans of jelly; we wax and swoon like tides of the moon. A Belly Torn person is dying of thirst; he’s leaving to last what should come first; bypassing the Belly for a trip to the head; welling water’s at hand but he drinks sand instead. Hard headed men with their pikes and poles have spiked their hearts and sold their souls; Torn from the Belly by Caesar’s sword, they need porn for their gourd or they get bored. I see them go marching down the road to hell; heaven’s for me, though, in the Belly’s wishing well. Oh, sweet sister water, warm river mother and lower lake Lover, deliver me from this God Almighty C sectioned world, forsworn and forlorn. Oh, mother Lovus, make me reborn in a world that is warm; give me your breast where I can take my rest; build us a nest in love consciousness. Oh, I love thee, warm Bellied sea; conch house me and consciousness we.


Prose 24

The belly is the center of a womam’s consciousness, and her body’s center of gravity. Men too gravitate toward her belly sun center. If they refuse to align with this solar center, they are cold planets, distanced from their warm, sun life source.

The Lover Government revolves around the sex, belly, heart center. Modern governments are talking heads, cut off from their bellies by neckties. Politicalmen and corporatemen are collared pets with nooses; robotic puppets on a short leash.

The Page of Cups is a shakespearean womamly man and manly womam. She is dressed in pink and blue with flowers on her dress, with a blood red undergarment.

Water flows past her. She holds a womam cup with a male fish. The cup is her womb and the fish her lover’s penis. The Jesus of the gospel fables was symbolized by a fish, the watery sign of pisces before the water bearing aquarian womam’s age.

Jesus means She’sus, an aquarian womam for a water age. The water bearer is a womam, the Lover. Water and blood flow from her belly in a moon rhythm as they did from She’sus, not from an historical man but from a metaphorical water bearer.

When man is torn from his belly connection with womaml, he becomes a King of bitter cups. He holds an empty cup and scepter of power. He is surrounded by water but his green shoes and angry looks indicated envy and jealousy of womem.

Men are borne by a womam’s belly and then born. If they feel torn from their source, they harbor resentment and try to return to the belly in round about ways.

Men forget that they are the womam and belly they seek. We are all womem on the inside. Men are external womem. A belly button reminds us of mother. The belly breath rises and falls like waves of the ocean and tides of mother moon.

Belly consciousness is about who we are in the wells of our bodyness. If we are aware of who the belly is, all is well. If not, we are dangerous cut off thing-kings.

I say “Belly Born” like a well worn prayer. I am the Lover’s belly, her waters and her breath, a shakespearean man playing womam playing man, Lover in Other.

My man and womam powers grow in depth and breadth. With page and king’s cups, I now retain 29 grail cups, 28 coins, 47 wands, 25 swords and 85 love notes.


21 Line Poem 24

The ocean breathed all night long

The breaking motion a surfing song

My body in rhythm wave for wave

Meeting the shore where they gave

To me their waving energy

And bore me up on foaming crests

A joy ride journey

Into my destiny

The laughter washed across the room

My prayer went up to the moon

Lifted me up, set me down

In the ocean all around

Many others went on through

Then I caught one sent by you

The smile in her eyes

The sight of her size

Took me by surprise

Oh, surging swell

Serve me well

Make me part

Of your heart


Love 25

Step 25

Four of Form


Broken and Open

Five of Cups and Ten of Cups

Open Heart

Lover Heart

Story 25

Level four, line four, Heartcross Junction Grand Central Union Station. Look out your window-mirrors. See your broken and open Heart. From the Lover’s Body heartland you go left, right, back or forward. The train is forward bound.”

I wasn’t sure if I was in or out of the body but this Lover’s body was a strange attractress. Her footfalls, vaginal grips, uterine contractions and now heartbeats were one convulsing whole body orgasm propelling us forward. Her bloodlines were all roads leading to home. I couldn’t go back now from this point of no return half-way house. Half measures wouldn’t make it. All or nothing now. Full dream ahead.

“Well said. The heart card is a cross in the sand, a signpost in the desert pointing home. Heartland is no homeland security fatherland. Men don’t like to ask for directions home, especially from a womam but the bell knells for the womam in thee. It belies patrified lies about gods in the skies, a hollowed scheme, no hallowed dream.”

Heat was thawing my cold, down pat world. Beneath the phony baloney there was an original win herstory. She had me by the hand, upside my head and by the short hairs. With her hands outstretch like She’sus, her body was a chrestcross with her heart at the center. I was a moving target in her crosshair sights.

67 years of following the down pat road left me at 6’s and 7’s. I was lost in the woods, getting nowhere fast taking the beaten path that led to destruction. This trip was no drug trip but I was having a breakthrough breakdown. Love was the wind at my back that always came back until I got back on track.

“All aboard.” Joy’s call reminded me that Grandpa was a conductor on the Great Northern railroad and Mom used to take us kids to Superior. She’s gone now but maybe Mom’s still taking me on a Superior Midnight Special with Joy.

“Serendipity, convergence and synchronicity? Fancy words for the heart card. Insert it into your personal computer. Search for heart. Stretch your arms out to ten holy grails. Say ‘Open Heart’ and feel your broken heart open. Works like magic. The Love Government works if you work it. Tits for tats. Lover’s tits.”

Joy gave me her Mona Lisa smile and fifteen cups for pass the heart test.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 25

The four of form is the crux of the matter; a quartessential step on the perennial stepladder; the epicenter of what consciousness did; the very center of the seven by seven card grid. How do I fix a broken heart? And where do I start? How do I put the horse back in front of the cart? When everything is Broken, is there a word left unspoken? I believe there is and that word is Open. Just say the word and your soul will be healed; just play the card from the hand you’ve been dealed. Broken Heart and Open Heart hang in the balance; a featherweight word can hand you her romance. Heavens and earths will all pass away but the words of the Heart forever will stay; against them there’s no power to gainsay; not even God can stand in their way. I pick up the pieces of my shattered dreams; press out the creases of my silent screams; wash out the feces of my sickly schemes. Words built the pyramids and made the nations; Love used words to make her creations. Every defect has an opposite affect; so with Broken and its opposite Open. Broken says he and Open says she; if I were her, I’d love more of me. In medio stat virtus, so it seems; in the middle stands her power, between extremes. Smack dab in the middle is the cross and the joint; you were looking at the gloss and missed the point. A room with a view looks on you; the groom of the Heart takes you apart so you can see what’s Open and what’s been Broken. Humpty Dumpty on the ground helped Jill fix Jack’s Broken crown. Just say Open and when the word is spoken, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men will come and put your Heart together again. The princess will be woken with Love’s sweet token. The prince has kissed her. The spell is Broken and Heart is Open.


Prose 21

The heart as a romantic notion does more harm than good. It’s used as a commercial dollar sign to make money and to co-opt and corrupt the heart of love.

The heart sign looks more like a womam’s pudenda than an organ in the center of the chest. The cult of the heart is more co-opted, patriarchal brainwashing which obscures real love with foolish fantasies and meaningless sentimental sensations.

To put a romantic heart before the overarching consciousness of real love is to put the cart before the horse. The heart is the horse who pulls no cart but is free like the Lover herself. Her love strums my heart strings as my soul sings.

The Lover is more than a feeling or an idea. She is what consciousness and reality rest in. She lights a fire in my heart. My heart is restless until it rests in her.

The heart card reflects the open and broken sides of the heart. The Ten of Cups shows a happy humam family. The Five of Cups pictures a suffering womam with three tipped over cups of spilled blood and water, due to matricidal patriarchy.

The cup is a symbol of womamhood. Blood and water are her menstrual and vaginal juices. The ten cups symbolize the fullness of her maidenhead watershed.

Ten is 1 and 0, everything and nothing, man and womam, penis and vagina, the one Lover in two sexes. The Great Heart has two sides for Love’s duet harmonies.

The Heart is the Lover’s sign, the door to her Cor, a portal to and from her womb, from which I came and to which I shall return, the fullness of ten holy grails.

A womam’s body is a faint reflection of the Lover’s fullness. When her earthly body is not revered, the evils of patriarchy rage and rampage. Fear and hatred hide behind valentines and barbie dolls, male money makers and Love fetish fakers.

I say “Open Heart” and open my heart to the Lover. I establish her Lover Government in my own heart. My heart is broken by buying into the lies about love. I listen to the Lover as she speaks truth in my heart. Cor ad cor loquitur.

I open my broken heart to earth, womem and children. To me, that’s love.

I stand up straight and add 15 cups to my strength for 44 holy grails of womam power. 4 and 4 is 8, at 4 spaces up and 4 across, a strong structural womam’s cross.


21 Line Poem 25

I feel you move within my breast

Beat and rest, beat and rest

I listen for your rhythmic sound

Silence sound, silence sound

From all the signals I can tell

It rings for me, this inner bell

I hear a voice inside of me

Come and see, come and see

Consciously, consciously

I close my eyes, go inside

I hear the words: confide, confide

I talk to my wayward heart

Other things have to part

Past the clever metered lines

Past the simple nursery rhymes

Past the flickering memory traces

Of fragmented places, faces

My heart turns into sacred sound

Shining light all around

I see a face in its midst

By the Lover I’ve been kissed


Love 26

Step 26

Five of Form


Lie and Cry

Seven of Swords and Ace of Swords

Throat Cry

Lover Cry

Story 25

I began to believe patricockery was a crock of crap and I was in it up to my neck with no way out. Its pandora bankster box was swarming with devils. I felt all boxed in but Joy’s voice was a welcoming whistle at the end of a long tunnel.

“Hold on. We’re up to breakneck speed in the Lover’s heart to head throat and neck connection. Don’t choke now or swallow what patriarchy tries to shovel down your throat. Make your own heart-to-head love tunnel.

“The big father lie chokes you like a neck noose. Necktied hangmen and their femen fiend enablers are stranglers. It’s a crooked deal but there’s a new deal coming. Speak truth to power. Cry love and let lies bury lies.”

Prospero’s Ariel Joy was no airhead. She dealt cards which burst through the air like fireworks. A voice from a card cloud spoke like wombsong.

“This is my beloved daughter. Listen to her. My vaginal hand holds a penis sword to pierce my vulva victory ring. I am a cry of the heart in the desert of the big lie in the sky which chokes and swallows you whole. Patriarchy is deep throat porn born of a torn and tortured lust. You swallow its big lie which sticks in your throat so you can’t even vomit. I will clear your throat but it’s a whole body operation. Let the lie die. Speak truth true to yourself. Free your neck and your body will follow.

“The heart-head connecktion is a tunnel of love. Cry your way home with tears of joy through the dark night of the soul. You will make it through by the light of truth.”

Joy was too much but she had a sure touch. Who was she? Secret soulmate? Hidden rejection projection? Lover connecktion?

“Heart to home,” she said like a pilot. “We’ve done the footwork, made the sex bed, soothed the belly, stroked the heartstrings and are ejaculated through a throat tunnel. It’s enough to make your head spin like a top.”

Joy said, “Here is a sword of truth to cut through the lies blocking your throat.”

This is what I needed to hear to clear my fear choked upper tunnel of love.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 26

The body is a book, if we would only look; the body’s a sacred code, if we would walk that road. I go to the Throat and the words I learned by rote. The Throat evokes a body’s Cries and chokes on godly Lies; a weapon baring fearsome teeth so a stomach is able to eat. The neck is the connection between the heart and head; without that subsection, your deed to life is dead. Dead talking heads lying through their teeth make my Throat vomit; red stalking feds prying underneath can’t love it so they bomb it. What comes out of the mouth is worse than a curse; it pollutes the earth and grows roots of hurt. The Lying Throat is the mouth to the underworld; the Crying Throat is the route to the other world. I thought I was heading for heaven’s point; I didn’t know I had to go through the heart head joint. Well, come what will, dogs that kill or women that thrill, it’s the same game shill: I have a stomach to fill before I climb that hill. All day long I quietly Cry and shout; the Lies in my Throat, got to get them out. The Throat is the body’s connecting link between how we feel and how we think. I Cry out in my grief and pain; it relieves the pressure and keeps me sane. My bitter feelings bubble up from below; I taste the things I do not want to know. Pilate asked what was truth; I knew the answer in my youth; it’s part of the law of tooth for tooth; but more than that, it’s you forsooth. It’s in the sounds of your voice and the grounds of my choice. I’ll use the words, the ones that ring true: the sounds of the birds and the colors of you. From your tongue to my heart and my gut to your feet; one song sung in twofold part to the one Love where we meet; one channel cleared for the joyous flood; I eat your body and I drink your blood. The metaphor’s true; you eat me and I drink you; you drink me and I eat you. I say mass and am your mess; one sweet taste of consciousness.


Prose 26

The Lover again reaches a hand out of her womb cloud of nothingness to hold a phallic symbol, as she did a wand in the first card of the deck. The cloud, hand and sword are womb, vagina and penis, sexual love signs in the order of consciousness.

Her creative hand holds the sword of truth. Truth is a two edged sword that speaks truth to power. The sword pierces a crown with victory symbols. Six golden drops fall like womam’s tears. The sword of truth pierces from feet through crown.

The sword is likened to the Throat. It is narrow and speaks straight. The pen is mightier than the sword. The sword is an s-word, a sword word associated with speaking truth which cuts to the quick of the black heart of power debased patriarchy.

The ability to cry is a gift of the Lover, given mostly to womem. I cry with joy and sorrow. My heart cries through the throat to the head. The sword is a cry of the heart, a cry of truth from the core of the ground to the soul of the crown. The six golden tears are the cries of a womam’s heart and the moans of her suffering earth.

When I do not cry my truth, I lie in my throat. Lying is not all that bad as the Seven of Swords shows by stealing seven swords filched from tents of a war camp.

The lie of the game serves the Lover and her government of love. The Seven of Sword’s lying stealth serves justice by turning swords to peaceful ploughshares.

Swords have spilled rivers of blood and created oceans of tears. Guns and rockets are the modern swords and spears forged by moneyist war profiteers. The Lover is taking swords back into her hand and out of the clutches of  greedy killers.

I cry with her, three tears of joy for three tears of sorrow. I put my throat and sword in her service, speaking my truth of love for her, the Lover Lovus of us all.

When truth hits the heart, it vibrates. The eyes widen, breath stops and hands fly to the chest. A womam Lover’s truth is told through a male sword point. The point of love is that war is pointless, a lie in the throat of money choked men.

The Lover crowns and knights me with her Ace of Swords. I take up her sword and cause of justice. With another 8, I now own 33 swords, a twofold trinity of triangular power, womam and man beauty to put the patriarchal beast in his place.


21 Line Poem 26

Connector for the head and heart

Symbol of connection’s art

You uphold a turning face

Down below you keep in place

While you get them to cooperate

You also have to separate

A passageway of great control

In body politics you play your role

When messengers are sent to the head

You monitor what will be said

Swallow it down or let it speak

Protest the strong, protect the weak

Your form’s been made narrow, long

Your function’s to be straight and strong

You bear the weight of right and wrong

Your fear is that you will be broken

For the words you have spoken

Fear no more you’ll be cut off

Or your expression be laughed off

Lift the head, speak the heart

In love’s game play your part


Love 27

Step 27

Six of Form


Dense and Sense

The Emperor

Head Sense

Lover Head

Story 27

Joy was on lovespeed and my head exploded like a multiphasic drug trip rolled into one joint, an endorphin pharmacy in spades where hearts were wild and clubs had diamonds. My head hit the wall and the stars I saw were aphrodite aphrodisiacs where everything came at once, a good and bad trip in broadcast simulcast.

“You hit the wall. It’s dense so use your seventh sense to penetrate pretense. You hit the Empire on its shoe mail, a male nail hard as a rail. Rail all day but you’ll go out on a rail unless you find a chink in his armor or a shaft in his Death Star. Use your lovar lasars, wand swords and cup coins to find the cracks to his power source. Hit him where it hurts and the pat structure will implode and fall like a house of cards. Go around this Jericho seven times, wave your joystick and the walls will crumble.”

I heard a rumble and when the dust cleared, the Empire’s Emperor appeared.

His metallic voice announced: “Welcome to headquarters. I’m surprised you made it this far. I wonder if it was the 33 swords. Your sidekick knows the ropes but we have ways to make her walk the line. I’m an old patriarch priest too you know. Did your father hurt you? God the Father desert you? Can’t you be a chosen sheeple in a penis steeple? You think I’m a dirty old man who kicked Eve out of her garden because I felt left out. What was I supposed to do? She was having sex with herself. So I made a mistake. It’s up to you to get this darth death mask off me. Give your dad a break, son. You’re made of good wood. Here’s some pearls of wisdom and I’ll let you go on with Joy. Womem don’t castrate; they masturbate and if you’re lucky, they masturbate you. Take it from a uncle sam, a burly old ham and a surly old man. I came out of purgatory and so I get to sit here until the karma burns and the card turns. Watch those parking meters and weapons of mass distraction. The First Mass was Masturbation. Don’t tell them I told you so. It’s the secret to bring down their empire. I’m tired of it already. My time is up. I love you, son.”

Behind my walls I felt the Dad I never had right down to my baseballs.

“Your old man’s got your back. Hold your manly sword like Baby Bear, not to tight and not too loose. What’s good for the gander is good for the goose.”


Stream of Consciousness Poem 27

The Head is the sixth card in the suit of form, a highly important part for Love to inform. The Head is a satellite in the sky to receive Love’s communications from on high. All my Head senses are open to you; eyes, ears, taste, touch and smell too. Love is the only thing to make any Sense; I would have seen it years ago if I weren’t so Dense. All day long my heart tells my Head where I belong; it tells Headquarters it won’t be long until I sing my song. My muscles are tired and my nerves are tense; I’m Heading for home like rising incense. I’m Able to give up my Cane and my crutch isn’t much. I see you and hear you with my finer Head Sense; your touch, taste and smell grow more intense. My Head is the sixth card and the sixth extra Sense; and you, Love, are the seventh Sense of our original innocence. I’ll keep my Heading on my true north star; I’m Heading home to where you are. I’ve caused much pain through my Dense foolishness; I’ll learn again through my heart Sense consciousness. I’ll keep my Head clear when the going gets rough; I’ll keep my Head cool when Love needs to be tough. Without you, Love, the world isn’t worth six cents; the Love I feel for you is my hurt’s recompense. Tell it to Headquarters, my heart down below; open the borders, so that I’ll know. Wouldn’t it be great if we could integrate heart and head, white and red. Keep the boarders if we must; sleep with borders that we trust. Love is the Head of this greater house; the other is Lover, soulmate and spouse. Love is two Heads gazing the same way; Love is two hearts engaged in game play. I’ve lost my Head over you and my false footing too. I’m Head over heels in this Love Dense deal; it’s you who seals this Head Sense real. I’ll keep my Head on straight while I wait by your gate. I am getting off the fence of being Dense. Heart and Head, board and bed, you I wed.


Prose 27

The Emperor sits on a throne surrounded by four rams, indicating his ability to climb the high mountains of consciousness. Behind him are Grand Canyon like cliffs with a river at their feet. The predominate colors are red and orange earth tones.

His crown is beset with jewels and a pair of wings. He holds the symbol of life in his right hand and a nippled globe in the other. His feet are clad in shining metal.

The Head is headquarters, the communication station of the body, like a satellite, held high to broadcast and receive. The jewels of the Emperor’s crown are crystals, more powerful than computer chips to receive and broadcast energy data.

The Head is sensor and censor. I continually sense countless ideas blinking on and off in my head, a vast innernet surpassing any internet. As head and Emperor I am a powerful satellite dish antenna, yet without Love I am Dense as a blockhead.

The emperors of the world and their empires are dense despite their worldly money sense. I avoid the traps of empire builders by serving a Lover Government.

Love is the arrow that senses the opening to the heart of the Lover and flies to it with the speed of love. I use my head to sense the hidden trajectories of love.

I am the Emperor with my senses alert. I use my powers to protect the earth, womem and children, and to fight the evils of patriarchy which would enslave them.

I sense all the pain and sorrow caused by the sins of the godfathers. I am part of their evil empire if I do not try to expose its evils and correct its corrupt abuses.

I submit to the higher power of love and to the Lover’s government. Empires and Emperors have their brief day of glory. They have caused enough misery.

It is time for the head to serve the heart, and for emperors and empires to become museum pieces, examples of what not to do, mistakes to learn from.

I say “Head Sense.” Love is the only thing that makes sense. I raise my head to the law of love. I invoke the Lover to be the emperor of my heart. I conjure her womamly presence in men to establish her love government on earthly grounds.

The Lover gives me IV love notes along with her womam’s rod and globe. I feel the Lover’s powers growing within me as my stock in love notes mounts to 89.


21 Line Poem 27

Resonating chamber, communicating center

Signals here exit and enter

Glory of womam and man

Ranging quickly with your scan

A satellite sensing far and wide

Advancing mind’s lofty pride

Like a world in form and end

Around you vibrations turn and bend

Lift yourself up straight and high

Like a station in the sky

With your windows of the soul

Be a lighthouse for my goal

When the waves toss and roll

Speaker for my every part

Keep in touch with my heart

Remember the feet that are your base

Let understanding fill your face

Radiant expression help me show

All the good things that I know

Eyes, ears, nose, chin

Watch out from within


Love 28

Step 28

Seven of Form


Sticky and Starry

The Empress

Starry Crown

Lover Crown

Story 28

When dying, my father worried about what would happen to my mother. Unable to see or talk, the last thing he did was squeeze my mother’s hand. When my mother came to die, she couldn’t talk either but her unseeing eyes opened wide and her heart gave one last beat, bulging veins in her neck, her death rattle her last battle. Maybe she felt Dad’s hand squeeze again. My mother’s first child was stillborn from patriarchal drugs. Like my older sister, I almost didn’t make it because of drugs.

“Love is such sweet sorrow,” Joy said. “A deathbed is a featherbed. It takes a soft touch when you brush with death. You are dad and mom in minature, emperor and empress in macroture. You move on up the line to the top of your form to crown of creation in a series of little deaths, euphemisms for lovorgasms.”

True to form, Joy opened up a starry universe with her soft touch. Emperor dissolved into Empress in a starry Garden of Eve. She spoke in heart tomes.

“I sit on a throne to make an impression. Don’t be too impressed with medieval pageantry or you’ll miss a primeval mystery. Keep your feet on the ground by seeing this house upside down. Yang rests in yin and the head yogi rests in her heart yoni, the height of his mountain in my deep vulvan fountain. Put your vision in reverse.

“Do I shock you? You patriarchs need shock and awe blowback. You murder my children from behind your computer screens and dark shades. You haven’t the balls to hear their screams. Your idiocracy will turn on you when you learn what it feels like to burn. You can’t numb out, dumb out or act out when your act is up.

“You see me as Demeter Venus here but from my Persephone position in the earth I pluck out patriarchal roots of evil but they’ll grow back unless you do your part. Don’t worry about the world. Just follow your heart. Little by little, cut the rotten roots of patriarchy in you and replace them with loverarchy. Replace She’sus’ crown of thorns with my starry story crown. Patrician pats love to see people as sheeple the better to shear them. Change their sorry story system with Joy.”

The Empress faded from view and I was alone with Joy. Man is to have joy and have it more abundantly. Starry heavens sit at the feet of simple Joy.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 28

The seventh middle room in this house of gods and men shows what will be and everything’s than been. The Crown of the humam head is set with the stars overhead, a record of everything said and everything read, a vast milky way of starry information, flowing to the Crown of story mediation. It’s written in the Stars for all to see and hear; you don’t need a horoscope when your lucky Star is near; you don’t need a seventh house zodiac for her to appear. Listen to your own house and the starry message will be clear. I’ve been to London and to Paris but I was undone by a mirror the fairest. It got tricky when my Crown got sticky; I got picky and went for the quicky. I had a Crown of thorns before I was born, a blight in the corn and right forsworn. I gave up my starry Crown for a roll in the hay; I lost the needle in the hay stack and my Stars went away. Now I’m listening to lucky Stars, riding in their cars. I consulted astronomy but you weren’t there; I confronted astrology but the air was too rare; numerology and philsophy didn’t seem to care. Every system got sticky and so did religion; they sold me out, it didn’t matter which one. I got tired of the jokers and their licky, sticky jokes; all the hired guns were juggling one gigantic hoax. I got lucky one day when your Star came out to play; you make your own luck, I thought I heard her say. According to the cards, I guess you could see it that way. It was all in perfect timing according to her reason’s rhyming. I feel the starry Crown upon my head; sometimes I hold it in my hand instead and often it turns into a starry bed but starry house of cards falls down when you come round and lay your body down. Oh starry Crown, bed of down, be a constellation of the finest distillation; perfume the room with candlelight for my true Love’s sight for she sleeps with me tonight and won’t wake until noon.


Prose 28

I arrive at the seventh house and body chakra, the Crown and Empress in the suit of form. When I go out under a starry sky, I feel the Lover’s starry presence.

She communicates her immense, delicate intimacy. The starry universe is her crown which she holds in her hand or places on her head. She crowns herself.

The Lover Empress sits against a red cushion with red flowers on her gown. Red is the color of the earth’s blood and hers. She is Venus, the goddess of love, with her Venus sign within a heart. The Love goddess Venus is Lovus, all of us.

Twelve stars crown her head and seven pearls adorn her neck. She holds her sacred sphere in her right hand. A waterfalling stream runs past the Tree of Life toward a field of wheat. She presents the picture of the Love Lover, Empress Governess.

She makes crop circles in her fields of golden grain, communicating her Love, whether it be in fields of wheat, cards of consciousness or stars in a knightly sky.

I am her, feeling the universe of stars about my crown chakra. When I open my eyes on a starry night or close my eyes and see the inner light, I feel her twelve sacred stars and seven pearls of wisdom, shining their warmth into my cold darkness.

There is a shadow card and shadow self, symbolized by an opposing “Sticky Crown.” Like the mythical Jesus, the Lover Venus also wears a crown of thorns.

I do too. When that sticky consciousness raises its ugly head and places its throny crown on mine, I bless it with love, turn its energy and balance the cards.

I am the Lover, Lovus, Jesus, Allah and any other word that describes who I am and who we are. It’s a game of raising my consciousness to her.

I say “Starry Crown” when that “Sticky Crown” comes around. When I fall down, it helps me to rise up so that I can fall back into love with the Lover.

I am the cards and yet I am not. When the cards fall down and disappear, who I am remains. I am the verything and yet nothing. I am the Lover who is playing with the cards, all of us as consciousness, Lovus and us, a Lover Love paradox.

Oh Empress Lover, I listen with all my heart to your starry pointers to love. I receive your three love notes to bring my magical love money to the 92nd power.


21 Line Poem 28

Rockets break free of gravity

Ships sail the boundless sea

I see eternity inside of me

Time stretching endlessly

An exponential trajectory

Infinity upon infinity

A thousand doors open wide

Shooting stars up inside

The speed so fast

The future’s past

The space so vast

The first are last

Reaching out in each direction

Filling up every connection

Horizons explode

Again to behold

What they enfold

And cannot hold

The rockets shot up overhead

Will you look at that she said

The way they turned white and red


Fifth Line in Seven Levels


I dreamt of Life the other night

Deep and wide, bold and bright

A magnificent procession of fragile beauty

Moving melody in sweetest harmony

Intricate rhythms of spiraling miracles

Fantastic scenes in all extremes

Breathtaking beauty, turbulent absurdity

Smiling faces in far out places

Terrible justice and winsome jests

A mixtum compositum letting go

Magnum mysterium of ebb and flow

Little things with silly shapes

Sublime ideas in mystic states

I awakened to life the other morn

The rising sun newly born

By turning earth giving birth

To singing birds in merry mirth

A quiet womam lost in wonder

Life dreamt of me the other night

And awakened me with day’s new light


Love 29

Step 29

One of Life


Hell and Well

Nine of Swords and Ace of Pentacles

Well Cell

Lover Cell

Story 29

Number, time and space were peak experience orgasms climaxing into a womam’s form. I thought we had taken it to the limit and couldn’t get much higher; that a womam’s crest had come to rest but for every top the Lover’s body had a bottom. Our psychedelic housetrip took on new life and Joy came on in a new register.

“That lurch you felt was us dropping into fifth gear. The fifth dimension is about life-energy, motion, heat, vibration and turbocharged animation where number, time, space and form come together in an orgy of life. Pick up your life.”

The theator of my mind was changing sets. Was this joyful preview rated R or X? X-ray life shifted into x-box warp speed, one hand on a joystick and the other on a lovethrottle. Luckily there were dual controls because my reflexes couldn’t keep beat with Joy’s heart. Lickity split she inserted a coin chip into a life slot machine and two more cards jumped into the air like genies let out of a bottle.

One was a sorrowful mother caught in a cell by a pat of nine-tailed swords and confined to a satyr bed. The other was the by now recognizable cloud of unknowing which I came to know as the Lover’s Sex Mass, only this time her womb cloud hand held a golden crystal ball instead of penile wand-sword. I did a joyous doubletake to take in this silent tableau. Joy wasn’t long in coming.

“The sorrower is in a pickle but she has a choice. Stay in a pat prison cell or move into a matricell garden well. She can play by love rules or stay in the hell blues with father fools. Pursue life, liberty and happiness or bed down in a viper’s nest. I’ll show you the way but it’s only show and tell. I can bring you to the well but you have to drink what you think. Some life to live in a think tank. Me, I’d rather be free.

“Come on. Let’s play sperm and swim over to that egg shaped love trellis opening to paradise. Life starts with a cell and ends in a well. Well-come. All’s well that ends well. Well done. Take one coinchip and nine sword bills to break a thousand Vegas banks; nine swords for nine muses to blow x-rated fuses. Think love. Make love. Be love. Mate love, my Love.”

I was in a loversex, lovetexted vortex. Eve’s Garden breezes blew through my mind.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 29

The suit of life is column number five; pursuit of life is what makes us thrive; the root of life makes us come alive. According to philosophy, life is a game and more to my liking, a fun card game. If you are into teaching, then life is a school. Life is a mirror for every kind of fool.  Life is a blast or life is a bitch; your role’s not cast and you can always switch. Life a playground from cradle to grave; a carousel merry go round, a surfer’s wave; shuffling cards like actors on stage; a big book of life turning page after page. Little Orphan Annie is playing musical chairs; the Well born Fannie is sitting on airs. If I want to know what life is about, I get in the flow and it will all work out. If I play by Joy’s rule, life is not that hard; just take step after step and card after card. When Love is your one and all, life is a house party and masquerade ball. The card game of Love is for the bold and the brave but the war game of shove is a cold, ground grave. Everybody’s playing games with a hundred thousand names. If the game is too easy, I get bored; if the game is too hard, I get floored. The name of the game is woe or woo; I proclaim it’s the same: to know the real you. Deal me cards one after the other; it won’t be so hard if you are my Lover. Life starts in a Cell and ends Well if all is Well. A Cell is a Well but has an inborn Hell; a hole in the whole and so a Hell of a Cell; half in Hell and half in heaven, we take a journey from one to seven. Hell is Hell and we’re Well aware of it; so we project and terror it. Our own government is the terrorist declaring it. Life begins as a prism Cell; strife will end as a prison Hell. A Cell is a circle to keep life in; Hell is a circle of the seventh sin. A Cell tells you what you’re not and the things you’ve got; the old Gordian knot and golden rainbow pot. I’ve been to heaven and been to Hell. I’m with you; all is Well. I wish you, oh, wishing Well.


Prose 29

For my journey to the heart of the Lover, I deal another suit, and climb stairs through another set of sevens in this house of Lover consciousness, a spiraling, wavelike motion, like following the grooves of a sea conch to its original start.

I am in the suit of life in pursuit of greater life. Life starts with a single cell. The Lover extends her hand from the cloud of nothingness to hold a cellular pentacle which stands for all of us as five pointed star configurations, gifts from Life herself.

The pentacle is a five pointed sign of humams and of the Lover herself, a five armed sea star of rich gold. The scene is set in a garden of white and red flowers, with a path leading through an egg shaped O opening to distant blue mountain peaks.

We live in the gardens of earth and on the mountains of high living lovers, on earth and in heaven. Love herself knows no boundaries but for love’s sake lives within cells.

When our cellular self has a garden consciousness, our cell is well. We drink from the well of the Lover’s heart and all is well. I am Eve and Adam, Mary and She’sus, the one Lover Lovus, governed by love, eating fruit from the Tree of Life.

Wellness is our natural state but we have created a most unnatural living hell on earth. The Nine of Swords portrays a cell in hell, black with sickness, suffering, pain, war, greed, hatred, revenge, death and all the sins of patriarkill, patriotic rage.

The gold pentacle is a womam’s consciousness, precious, rich, beautiful, pure and greatly desired. The Lover’s body is womam’s wealth, a genuine gold standard.

The Roman emperors had their circuses. Modern elites have their sports, shows, stock market casinos, churches and civic centers of mass manipulation.

Hell is a state of consciousness that is not well, a cancerous cell in the body of love. Hell affects every cell. It will suck the life out of us unless managed by love.

I rise from my sick bed in hell and meet my Lover in the garden of love. I change to the Lover consciousness, in a garden of life, holding the gold coin of us.

I am the Lover’s wombly cloud, vaginal hand and cellular body. I go through her garden fountainhead and O maidenhead to her sacred grove, altar mountainhead.

I gain 1 pentacle and 9 swords to total 29 pentacle and 42 sword power units.


21 Line Poem 29

The sun above

Smiled with love

The man gave way

To child’s play

The leaves fell down

Upon the ground

The breezes blew

The garden grew

A spade was laid

In the shade

The air was clear

The sea was near

He took a nap

On my lap

She made orders

Watered flowers

I touched the soul

Of being whole

Peace descends

I pretend

It never ends


Love 30

Step 30

Two of Life


Poison and Potion

Four of Cups and Ace of Cups

Plant Potion

Lover Plant

Story 30

If the Lover’s garden was a mega solar cell, what would level two be? Joy was johnny on the spot and didn’t skip a beat, changing keys from mineral to plant kingdom. Twisting and turning, two cards danced onto our mind screens. I was in a world series of dreams; one game down and it looked like we’d go seven. Life was a game and Joy was the heavy hitter in the clean up spot.

She brought in game two with a star spangled banner. The featured cards stepped to the plate and hit my mind out of the park. Buddha was under the bodhi tree and She’sus held the holy grail. “Play ball,” called Joy like a world seasoned imp ump. You’re up to bat. What do you think these baseball cards are worth?”

I didn’t know what to think but I was learning to think on my feet with my heart. This was a game plan of what not to drink. Joy was standing on deck. She threw me a change-up. “The down pat cult is a sucker knuckle ball. Strike one if you take a swig; strike three and you’re out to pet prison with dejavu all over again according to the gospel of Yoni Bear. Moses spent 40 years in the desert, Jesus 40 days in the wilderness and Buddha 40 hours under a cactus. Modern times are speeding up. You get a 40 second second chance sight byte now. Keep your eye on the fast ball but watch for the curve.”

Joy was love at first bite. She brought to my lips the cup’s deep mystic music. Eat my body and drink my water echoed down the ages from thumb worn pages, love’s rule book composed by sages, the Isis body of Lovus unveiled in stages. I was rhyming with Joy if not in timing with her. Bitter when off taste like the sour petco cup that shrivels your stomach. The four of cups was a piss poor fear bier, a warlocked petridish culture brew from palefaced terrorists and their money whore dish.

My joyus dixie chick pulled old dixie down and spiked the polpot cup with a drop of Lovus nectar. Patriotic culture was no love ocean potion but a hard assed rain mouthed by talking heads with spouting neckties, a big put lie from pickle penis brains.

My cup ranneth over. I needed a seventh inning stretch in the second inning. Joy’s voice stretched too: “This the beginning, not the big inning. Joyfuel is a rich mixture. A spark could set it off. No smoking guns here if you please.”


Stream of Consciousness Poem 30

The great chain of being is forged link by link; the consciousness of seeing is built on what we think. Plant life is the second plank of the constitutional platform; what we think of Plants is the modern conundrum. Poison the rivers and cut down the forests but keep on filling the stock market gullets. Cancer and arthritis and thousands of ills are grist for the mills that bite us with bills. Poisoning of Plants is our bloody blind spot; the coin of the realm gives us just what we’ve got. It used to be that Plants were sacred; now they’re a hedge to break out of the red. Once we met in temples to offer Plants to the gods; now we’re coins from the coffers of Wall Street odds. The consciousness of Plants is more than organic; it’s not something you freeze or plan it or can it. The cardboard and plastic supermarket shelves pay for our pesticized, packaged checked out selves. The old farm hands used to take a break in the shade; now in the hot plastic fields there’s no trees nor grass, not even a blade. The lowly Plant kingdom is the key to our woes; vines on the fence have more sense than CEO’s GMO’s. The life of Plants is more than a political notion; it’s a holy, sacramental, powerful Potion. Socrates gained eternal life by a Potion of hemlock; the grail of Jesus held wine pressed Plant stock; wine and symbolic blood, infernal gates unlock. Plants give their fruit so I can drink and eat; they give me oxygen so I can think and breathe. I sacrifice Plants on my hands and my knees; it’s not me or them but Love that I please. Plants are players on the conscious stairs; I eat and drink them with my prayers. I am what I eat and I drink what I think. I’m on a weightless diet served on paper with ink. I eat your body and drink your blood from the tree of life and the Plant of Love. You’re the Plant cup and the Potion I sup.


Prose 30

The Lover’s hand reaches out from the cloud of nothingness to hold a sacred chalice. The round cup chalice is a sign of herself and her womamliness. She is the holy grail cup we seek, the womam Lover from whom we came and will return.

The Lover shows her womamly hand in the first two cards of the life suit. First she held a round humam pentacle and now a spherical cup overflowing with life giving water. She is making a Lover’s suit through these symbols of coins and cups.

The Lover is first womam, then man. Man comes from womam. Men have turned this natural order around which is why the world is so broken. The Lover comes to reinstall a Lover government with womem and children first and foremost.

After one celled organisms, Plants are the first major life forms. They are developments of consciousness. First I am a cell, then I am a plant. Plants are sacred as portrayed by the Ace of Cups. The spirit dove brings gift of food and drink.

The five pointing coin becomes the five streaming cup, feeding water plants, who are us in our primitive beginnings and lower consciousness primeval stirrings.

Animals were designed to eat plants and drink water as a sacred act. This orderly arrangement was changed by spirits of a meaner sort, who created meat eating sharks and filled their craving for killing with ravenous, carnivorous dinosaurs.

Depite the corrupted order of things, plants remain sacred. Eating plants and drinking water are sacred ceremonies, communion of love bodies and lovus waters.

Every card has a reversed side. Sitting like Buddha under the bodhi tree, I am tempted to drink a poison cup but I’d rather drink a love potion from a lover’s cup.

The Lover Government supports natural order. Humam nature is designed for veganarianism. Consciousness demands it. Humams eating animals is corrupt.

Animals eating animals is naturally self limiting. Men were meant to live off the land, not off the bodies of animals. Whole plant food makes for whole life.

Love is food for thought. I drink from a Lover’s cup. I say “Plant Potion” to raise my consciousness. I eat the Lover’s spirit body and drink her sweet waters.

I add 4 sour cups and 1 sweet chalice to my Lover’s store of holy grail power.


21 Line Poem 30

Bubbling up, flowing over

Buttercup, four lead clover

In the spring and the fall

After all, it’s a ball

Makes no sense on the fence

So jump right in

Swim around

You’ll have fun

With everyone

I don’t care what you wear

You’re like air everywhere

I see you in every tree

Every plant is really me

You can have me after all

I am not so very tall

The day I started

Having fun

Was wholeheartedly

In the sun

I gave it up

You filled my cup


Love 31

Step 31

Three of Life


Kill and Care

Ten of Swords and King of Swords

Animal Care

Lover Animal

Story 31

I had to remind myself that I was along for the ride. I could see myself in the window as the scenery flew by. This joyhouse was a motorhome cruising a highway of dreams but I thought I was cruising for a bruising when we pulled into the next pit stop. A man lay murdered by ten pit bull swords. A king stood guard like an angel at the gate to hell or a cop at a murder scene. How in hell could this happen?

My guardian angel at my side heaved a sigh like a cry. “The love order system is broken. How many deaths will it take before patriarchy guns sleep in the sand?

My joyrider was walking where angels fear to tread but Joy was angel and neither was I. The king spoke like a prosecuting attorney in a world court.

“Patriarchs are big time liars, like calling themselves homo sapiens. The only sapiens in them is the sap they stole from womam’s culture. Look at this scene of murder and mayhem and judge the patriarchal tree by its bitter fruits.

“I’m showing you how to hold up your clitoris-penis swords to protect earth, womem and children, not stab them in the back in ten different ways. If you want to stop the killing and save the world, stop killing animals and enslaving them as pets. These actions lead down the slippery slope to killing of your own kind.

“Plants eat cells and animals eat plants. That is the original plan. Spiritual patriarchs in the early mists of time demanded carnivorous animals to satisfy their blood lusts and they got their way only on the condition humams would not be carnivors. Never trust patriarchy, the father fuhrer of lies. You can see the result of animal killing portrayed here by the warlord Ten of Swords.

“When humans kill and eat animals, they kill and eat themselves, a horrendous Charles Manson helter skelter horror story, leading to holocausts without end. Love’s law, Do Not Kill, will not be mocked. Animals take their revenge through disease and death. Like every other just law, patriarchs stole the Do Not Kill commandment from womam’s culture and proceeded to misinterpret and trash it.

“Practically all your physical and mental diseases and suffering come from unnatural animals relations. Let the animals live free and you will be free.”


Stream of Consciousness Poem 31

Climbing the evolutionary ladder is no easy picnic affair; its a latter day revolutionary matter from Killing to Care. The original plan for man was a plant eating Animal but the gods of gore and war craved a more bloody carnivore. At last it came to pass the sea was cursed and the land hexed; the die was cast for the worst; shark infested waters on an earth tyrannosaurus rexed. Animals killing Animals give bloody gods their sport while men killing men is the modern day gun report. The “thou shalt not kill” commandment and the death of Jesus Christ could not stop the flood of blood or abate the fatal hate. The killing goes on and hatred turns on the lie of the con. The card will turn when enough people learn to take their stand with the original plan for an Animal man. There’s a land where tough Love rules and gentle Care is boss; to get there you need blood of fools where Love lines cross. I’m already living in that house of Love in the land of Care; it alights on me like a peaceful dove and a brand new prayer. I play the cards of the fairy tale fable of Cain and Able. In the not near future, the Animal and plant border will be restored; then Care will be king and Love will be lord. Killing has a place between Animal and plant; humans killing Animals is a rant that can’t. He who lives by the flesh killing sword, will die by it; give me your fresh willing word; I’ll lie with it. I will be Abraham’s son, the one in his bosom above; I crossed that line to an Animal in Love. Millions of years of sacrifice and it’s not enough to suffice. All the crazy killing and the red blood spilling is because we crossed a line set in ancient time. Now that we’re here with the blood and the fears, we should kill if we must, with bloody tears. Sacrifice to the gods is guilt for Animal blood spilt. Gods take the blame for our murder and shame. Care versus Kill is a name for the salvation game.


Prose 31

Making my way up the life suit, I come to the third level after cell and plant, and step into the Animal kingdom. I meet myself in the King of Swords tarot card.

Man is king of animals by the power of his s-words, his sword words and sound words. The pen is mightier than the sword due to Animal humam powers.

The Lover uses the king and his sword, as Lovus has always used kings, for her pleasure and government. The beds and tables of goddesses were within her godus houses, which are now altered altar remnants in modern religious houses.

The Lover’s lover, a womam’s man, sits like a giant on his throne with sword, crown and purple cape. Butterflies, birds, red scarf and blue dress reveal his inner womam nature. Red, brown and blue colors are earth pigments of Mother Nature.

Man the inhuman animal has separated himself from the Lover government. He causes the tragedy of Ten Swords. He who lives by the sword dies by the sword. Under a black sky, ten swords pierce a blood red caped body. Guns, rockets, bombs, drones and a thousand other devil devices are modern swords, stabbings in the back.

S-words are consciousness that cares or kills. A caring king uses his sword words to govern with Love. A killing king uses them to plunder with patri-power.

The proper government of love is for animals to eat plants who eat cells. The order of love is corrupted when humans kill themselves or animals. Thou shalt not kill was chiseld in stone. The Ten of Swords’ killing tools shatter those stone tablets.

Man, king of animals, degrades animals by killing them or making them pets. Men displace love for their own kind onto animals. Practically all human diseases come from domesticated animals and improper human to animal relationships.

As king of sword words, I serve the Lover and her government of love. As the Lover herself, I am an animal lover who restores animals to their proper place, giving them the dignity of being free from human pet bondage and penned slaughter.

I say “Animal Care” and feel the Lover’s power flow through my animal self.

I pull the ten swords from the body of animal humamity and along with the king’s sword protect animals and humams. My sword army grows to the 53rd power.


21 Line Poem 31

Breathing every being

Spinning every spiral

From the greatest of galaxies

To the tiniest of animals

Working every plan

In the annals of man

The kiss of the Lover

In lovers’ embrace

The touch of the mother

On her first child’s face

Yet why does it rain

On the cities of pain

In my darkest hour

Came the greatest power

When there seemed nothing left

But fearsome death

I felt the tender breath

Through chaos from above

With the voice of living love

The rain is over and gone

Come, my Lover, come


Love 32

Step 32

Four of Life


Harpy and Happy

Eight of Wands and Ten of Pentacles

Happy Humam

Humam Lover

Story 32

As the animal cards faded, I had a eureka moment. I saw that as I went from card to card in this house of cards which Joy called the Lover’s Body, I gained knowledge and power, symbolized by the wands and swords, coins and cups and lovars. The card world and the cosmic world were cousins.

“Exactly,” Joy piped in. “Now we’re leaving the animal card world for the humam. We do a little quantum hop, skip and jump.”

Sure enough, the animal farm disappeared into thin air and we were in Medieval City. Joy continued, “Medieval means in the middle. These medieval cards are a convenient tracking device. Don’t let a specific culture sidetrack you. The Lover Government embodies all cultures, beginning, middle and end.

“The point of being humam is to be happy. As these cards show and tell, you can’t be happy when disembodied penis heads hang over you like nuclear missles and Grandpa Patriarch enslaves you like pets.

“Pay-archy is the enemy of happiness while promising happiness it never delivers nor will it deliver in its pie in the sky heaven. You can be happy, however, despite patriarchy’s insidious omnipresence. The price is eternal vigilance, discipline and unrelenting dedication to the Lover and her government.

“Patriarchy is anti-love despite all its propaganda to the contrary. Love is accessed through the Lover and her womam centered culture. Patriculture is a kill-joy and slay-love. If you want love, you’ve got to fight the patrigod addiction.”

The more cold, clean and sober I got, the happier I was. I might not smile like a politician or swagger like a patrician but I felt the ground of love beneath my feet, was less afraid of the penile clubs overhead and was freer from the prison planet of serfdom. To be happy I had to watch every move because pates in their ivory plated steel towers had dropped cluster bombs everywhere in their minefield madness.

“Happiness just happens when humans become humams, when they take on the hue of mams. We’re all moms and womem on the inside. Until we get that fact straight and stop playing the delusion confusion, we’re just harping harpies.”


Stream of Consciousness Poem 32

How to be Happy is a Humam wishing well; Humam Happiness is the proverbial nutshell. Happiness is something you can’t make or fake; it just happens when you finally come awake. The rule of Joy is simple to be sure; it’s given to those whose hearts are really pure. Religion and philosophy aim their arrows at it; science and psychology thought that they had it. Happiness comes from deep down and from above; to put it in a nutshell, it’s a brother to sister Love. It’s a game with many a name to tax the wisest brain; it’s the only medicine for pain to keep from going insane. It’s right before the eyes, standing out from all the lies. You can feel it in your heart when you’ve really played your part. Keep dealing with your blues and picking up the clues. Happiness is goal of all the saints and sinners; the soul of all the ancient winners. I’ll play the game of games until I am a master; through all the twists and turns, I will be the man to match her. It is all a game of Love with Happiness as the prize; it’s the name of what you’re made of, shining through your eyes. I was really Happy when you dealt me that one eyed king but what looked good back then is now a different thing. Driving a car is a constant correction; thriving Love is a conscious direction. I just follow the rules of the game and come to the place where it is all the same. The cards are shuffled and the deck’s been cut; I love the cards I’m dealt no matter what. They’re all leading up to the peak of the house; they bring my lips to the mouth of my spouse. Happiness is in my stars; Lovingness is in my cards. Loving makes it so; that’s about all I know. I’ve been a Harpy Human long enough; I’ll be a Happy Humam when my Love is soft and tough. I’ll seek my Happiness in the arms of Love: a peak experience in the sacred circle’s charms above. Oh, Happy day, when you come into my house to play.


Prose 32

At this level of consciousness, I see where I fit into a context of consciousness as a humam being. When I live properly within the order of the Lover’s government, I am happy. When I am a harping harpy, I am the eight, deadly, phallic harpoons.

A humam being is supposed to be femina sapiens, an embodiment of conscious wisdom or Sapentia in Latin. Wisdom is womam’s consciousness, Sophia in Greek.

The Ten of Pentacles represents the perfect ten of a perfected humamity with happiness as the seal of that state of consciousness. The ten five pointed pentacles containing the golden mean is the coin of the humam realm, rich and abundant.

The humam family lives in a rich, civilized scene. The man, womam and child stand within a paradisal gate while white haired patriarchy and its pets are outside.

Womem are the natural core of the humam family. Patriarchy resented that and reversed the natural order. It enslaved womem with marriage and property rights.

Men discovered that their common penis was connected to the production of babies, who along with womem became something to control. Individual men wanted to own their woman and their man child, and thereby make themselves deathless gods.

Men discovered that by training animals they could farm and sell the excess. Women and animals could be used as products and pets, marketplace money fodder.

The matrifocal Love culture was destroyed. Godfathers and gods built their civilizations on the bodies of womem, children and animals. Slavery was born.

The Lover Government restores proper order in the house. Men killing animals are out of order. Womem and children come first. Men are servants to them. Animals too need to be given their freedom from being pets and food.

In time human carnivores will die out like dinosaurs, and lions kings will lay down with lambs and eat grass. Happiness will then return to womem and children.

I say “Happy Humam” to set my own consciousness house in order. Orderly government starts with myself and then extends itself to society, all in love time.

I change 8 harpy harpoons into magic wands, and with the perfect 10 love coins of humamity, use magic wands and coins to turn patriarchy into loverarchy.


21 Line Poem 32

Hard driven when you’re tall

Easy going when you’re small

Born out of fierce desire

Having the strength of fire

Untested, you crack and peel

Tempered, you’re strong as steel

Led by the mind in motion

Sped with willful emotion

You want it when you want it

And then you want to flaunt it

It’s all right, it’s OK

You will do it anyway

Just keep in mind there’s others too

Who are just as good as you

So let’s find out whether

You can loosen the tether

And get it all together

Before you’re too old

To do what you’re told

Be brave, be bold

Go for the gold


Love 33

Step 33

Five of Form


Hate and Mate

The Lovers

Soul Mate

Lover Soul

Story 34

I woke from a climbing dream where someone helped me out of restrictive clothing. My illuminated clock showed 3:33. Where was I in the so called awake world? Oh yes, I was on card 33 in the life suit and Georgia Joy was taking me home country roads. We were in the presence of a magnificent sun angel, embracing two lovers with a mons venus mountain between them. Joy’s voice came from the angel at the gate straight to my heart like a sunburst of liquid light.

“In your pursuit of more life, liberty and happiness, you tapped into cells, plants, animals, humams and now souls. You need each of these or your symphony of life will be off key and out of synch with home base.

“The Lover is your soulmate at home, inner womam anima and outer man animus. You are womam loving man and man loving womam, triangulated by a pan-sexual mons venus angel. You make mate-love with the Lover. Hence your intense desire for a soulmate mirroring the Lover’s desire for the same.

“Everything in the Lover’s world is sacred like a soulmate. You have trouble accepting bodily discharges like menstrual blood, ejaculatory water, urine and stool. Patriarch culture is so toxic with meat eating, lying and stealing that body excretions are toxic too. The most natural metaphor for creation is what comes from the humam body. Patheads euphemized nature by dogmatizing that God spoke creation from his mouth. When culture is clean, body excretions make compost for green gardens.”

The angel card fell silent. My joy angel at the gate of love life was no charlatan channeler but I wondered where her outrageous talk of masturbation came from.

“I’m glad you asked.” Joy wouldn’t miss a chance to puncture patriprickery’s inflated penile baloon balls by making a pointed risque remark.

“Masturbation is a thorn in the side of Patriarch Pa’s scheme for world domination. Horror of horrors, that a womam should masturbate and bypass the God Almighty penis. It would undermine the globalization grab bag and xxx rated sexscam. Masturbatory monoaction is a heresy not to be taken religiously.”

Or the clit would bring down the penit, I added irreverently.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 33

It is a fearful thing to be lost; to want to get home at any cost. It can appear in your dreams as nightmares; that lonely feeling that nobody cares. You give up hope and surrender your pride; there seems no way out except suicide. Therapies and religions rush in to fill the empty vacuum within. A poor, lost Soul will pay any price to get out of the pit of the painful vice. I’ve walked the paths both foul and fair but wherever I’ve stopped, it hasn’t been there. Whatever it is, I’m the one pursuing it; heaven is helping but I’m the one doing it; it’s called Love for lack of a better way of saying it but it’s an empty word on the lips unless praying it. Love doesn’t need a god to go to or bow to; I don’t need anyone to show me how to. Love is just there all the time; it’s beyond reason and doesn’t need rhyme. The games we play are for our entertainment; the houses we build provide us containment. A house of cards will fall with a breath; the game is called with each breathful death. The house and cards are part of the game, pointing to the heart without any name. A collapsing card house is the fall of man, a fallen idol of who I am. Through all the sad losses and bad doublecrosses, there’s one unsought who pays my toll; she’s the spouse of my lost Loved Soul. It’s the story of the one lost sheep; the Loved one that Jesus sought to keep. This is the card upon which I stake my life: a higher bet than a house; a surer chance than a wife. This is the legacy I give to my son: I fought for justice and gave all for Love. In the last moment, I have won: there’s just us and the conscious one. It’s not true that I loved and lost; those were just bridges that I crossed. In that wedding by the sea, the wind winnowed the sand; gulls sang to the ring on your hand; angels passing by your smiling eye hushed their cry. Sail on sweet Soul, the shore you dreamed is more than it seemed.


Prose 33

On my travel through life, I change from cell to plant to animal to humam to soul. I have soul if I have love, whether individual, paired or communal soul.

The Lovers card shows Everywomam and Everyman flanking a mountain before the Trees of Knowledge and Life. The womam’s consort snake whispers in her ear that she is the one who knows. She knows she knows because she is a love greater than knowledge. She is a sunny angel who blesses her sexes.

The one Lover is also two lovers. She embodies as womam and as man. Womam is primary and man is secondary. Womam has inwardly what man has outwardly. When she extends herself, she takes on the appearance of outer man.

Womam uses sex for love and man uses love for sex. Never the twain shall meet except in love consciousness. Soulmates hunger for each other when they forget they are the Lover. When they know the oneness, they can enjoy the twoness.

When lovers are the Lover, they mate with freedom and ecstasy. When they forget who they are, their mate may be an object of hate and unrequited love.

The Lover as soulmate restores the balance between the sexes. They’re not equal but close. A womam is on top if she chooses and with whom she chooses. When it comes to conceiving and birthing, a womam controls her own body but law of love applies to all her rights and responsibilities.

I am a soul in love with the Lover. She gives me love and mate satisfaction. A soulmate relationship is not that hard to find. In fact, it is impossible to avoid. We are all soulmates, flying into earth’s bright humamsphere, trailing clouds of glory.

In this game of love, the queen checkmates her soulmate by mutual consent. In our soulmate dance, we fly higher and higher like queen and drones until we meet in Love’s heart where the holy and sacred marriage game is consummated.

The soul’s mate is the Lover. The Lover and the soul are primarily womam. I say “Soul Mate” to taste the honeysweet nectar of a Lover’s soulmate kiss of bliss.

I mate with soul and receive VI love notes from the Lover’s reserve and my love power grows to 55 wands, 53 swords, 39 coins, 49 cups and 98 love notes.


21 Line Poem 33

I knew you were the one

When I saw you standing in the sun

The sky in your eyes blew

Kisses to your sleeping beauty

Awakening the spring flowers

Opening gifts from the Lover

In that wedding by the sea

The waves washed your dress white

The wind winnowed the sand

Gulls sang to the ring on your hand

The wine and the bread

Knelt to the veil round your head

Angels passing by

Hushed their cry

The smile in your eye

Brought boats about

The bend in your back

To the vale of your dreams

Sail on sweet soul

The shore you’ve dreamed

Is more than it seemed


Love 34

Step 34

Six of Form


Tree and Free

The Hanged Man

Free Spirit

Lover Spirit

Story 34

Joy’s ideas about life were wildly different than the ones I heard from pulpits and pundits. She was a wild card but at least had a life. Our cult culture was a flat out wasteland, a dead sea desert strewn with bodies from desolation row, a death valley pretending to be an oasis. My ideas were sitting ducks for a joyus sharpshooter.

“Your cultic cultural ideas of life are ducks dead in the water and you’re a dead duck too if you try to hang onto those ducks in a row. Let’s go to a new row to hoe.”

Like flying ducks, a new card took the lead. A spinning card helicoptered in, a man hanging by a foot from a T-cross and as the card turned he did a jig on a cross stage. Was this Joy’s version of Jesus getting free on the tree?

“The story of Jesus and the tree is a pat concoction of confusion. Patrisadists had to kill womam’s tree of life. What better way than with a Roman sword disguised as a cross? The Christ cross is a Constantine sword plunged into the body of mother earth, hilt-handle trained against a black sky. Womem worshipped a pelvic crest. Roman soldiers worshipped a sword cross. Christians put womam’s crest on the cross and called it Christ to conquer the world in this Christ-cross sign.

“Male cultures worship the cross of power. Christians made the cross culture cosmic. Salvation through the cross is a twisted con to kill herstory of salvation by womem’s crest. Godfathers and their awful God legitimize torture by calling it love, turning the sign upside down by making womam’s double crest a double ax.

“The big lie is that salvation comes from a man on a cross, an absurd idea of God sacrificing his son which comes from patriarchs sacrificing their own sons to a war God. This dancing card says to get off the Jesus kick and do a She’sus jig. Be a free spirit who danced in womem’s groves prior to the onslaught of male trolls.

“All of us are She’sus Chrest, the Lover who saves herself and her world from patriarchy. Freedom isn’t free. The price is to give up the patrix addiction, a disease many times worse than alcoholism. Other addictions can be cured in twelve steps. Recovery from phallus-pathology takes fifty-two. The first step is to deny the denial that patri-slavery exists. See the difference between a doublecrest and a doublecross.”


Stream of Consciousness Poem 34

The six of life is card thirty-four; another door that opens up Love for her Cor. The life suit is designed to set the Spirit free; the price of Freedom may be the crucifixtion Tree. Eternal vigilance is the price of Freedom’s cost; Love’s consciousness is salvation for souls that are lost. Love makes the worlds and the cards spin around; balances the extremes of saints’ and sinners’ ground. A Free Spirit and a Tree Spirit are means to an end; poles of cards which around the center contend. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men need our Love to bring the Spirits together again. The only force strong enough is the heart in the middle; the only answer big enough to solve evil’s riddle. I’ve read all the books and endured all the crooks; I’ve seen sad looks and peered in dark nooks. The Spirit’s in the center right out in the open; in the knot of the Tree in the heart that’s been broken. I tried to get to heaven and ended in hell; I counted to seven but couldn’t break hell’s spell. Now I sit quiet in the heart of my pain; I come into your house to get out of the rain. I can see the lightning of the storms that rage and feel the writing on the torn bloody page. When I split the wood, I found you inside; I tasted the sap of your fears and sprung the trap of your pride. The high priced therapies cannot get past your front door; all your medicine and herbs just sweet talk your Cor. The hurt in your heart screams bloody murder; she was there at the start but you couldn’t hear her. You are looking for Love in all the wrong places; recycle that garbage with the cruel, angry faces. As for me, I’m going to be Free by climbing that Tree; your power complex hates me because it fears to be Free. So does the Tree when you cut and cross-split it to make a house for your lost and found Spirit. Oh, sweetheart, if only I could, I would build you a home out of Love’s sweet, ever good wood.


Prose 34

The higher I go in pursuit of life, liberty and happiness, the easier it is to see the paradox of the game. Everything is nothing. Going up is going down. Big is small. Suffering is joy and death is freedom. The Spirit is both a hanged and dancing man.

When the cards spin the Hanged Man becomes the dancing man. A free spirit becomes a tree spirit. Life is irony and paradox. The first are last and the last first.

Things are not what they seem. This life is a dream from which we awaken into real life. Life is a game of shuffling cards where I  am every card from the ace to the king. I am the whole deck but more than that, I am the player holding the deck.

When the game is over, aces and kings return to the same box. If I build a house of cards, it can collapse at any time. Knowing the passing nature of games sets me free from being caught in my own game. I become a free spirit and a tree spirit.

The tree of life is a structure like a house of cards. I can hang from the tree like fruit or I can turn the tree upside down and do a jig. The story of Jesus plays on this theme of death and resurrection, a myth about us. Jesus is She’sus, a name for us.

I am a free spirit when I get into the dance of life. I am a tree spirit when I allow myself to be hung up. I love it all, the ups and downs, the ins and outs, every twist and turn of the game. I am a free lover, dancing on a tree as a spirit free.

The crucifixtion of Jesus on a tree is a made up tale to explain evil and suffering but it fixates suffering rather than fixing it. I am the free tree of life.

Pick a card. They’re all the same on one side and all different on the other. I am the Lover who is always the same and always different. That’s the fun of a card game as a metaphor for the game of life. Absolute certainty and random chance.

Love is certain. It will never end because it never had a beginning. It does not change because it is always the same. The Lover is the player and the game played.

Whatever card life deals me, I have dealt it to myself because I am the Lover and all her government cast of card characters. It’s all a set up for the lessons of Love.

I am rewarded for my dance on the tree of life with XII love notes, musical power units which give me 110 love notes, enough to be held in the Lover’s arms.


21 Line Poem 34

I gaze into a place

Beyond space and time

Catching glimpses of its reality

Washed clean by doubt

And holding steady still

It buoys me up with mixtures

Of faith and tenuous experience

I practice and wait

Practice and wait

Watching for what I hardly know

A consciousness catching

Half awakened dreams

I ride the words of those

Who say what they’ve seen

Stepping stones past

My clinging comfort

It’s there, it’s there

The voices chant

The curtain dissolves so slowly

No mighty visions here

Only quiet intimations


Love 35

Step 35

Seven of Life


War and Cor

The Hierophant

Cor Lovus

Lover Lovus

Story 35

If I really were a free spirit, what would I do? Travel everywhere or go nowhere? I thought God was the supreme reality. I became a Catholic priest and monk. I left that and became initiated and ordained again in a new age religion. It all led nowhere but I didn’t understand nowhere meant now-here in an earth centered universe. When Joy dealt the seventh card of the life suit, it was dejavu all over again for me, an ex priest. We were in the presence of the Hierophant who now spoke.

“If you continued to play priest, you might have made Pope, the supreme patriarch. How did you escape that patriarch peter principle?”

It might have been that I practiced Catholic love devotions like the Sacred Heart or in new age religion style had programmed to be the Heart of God. God turned out to be a head bust but his heart turned out to be a Womam Lover with a breast bust. She gave me religion but not the religion I was brought up in.

“You get what you ask for. Asking for the highest love is a safe bet. Plugging into the highest power source is a good connection. Patriarchal religions made themselves the source and called it God, and then called God love. That’s not even a bad connection; it’s a short, short-circuit to hell with no fuse box.

“Pretty vestments and pious words cannot cover up mountains of bloody deeds. The pate system is rotten to the core because it is the anti-lover.”

I was part of the pat pate system so I figured I needed to do what I could to fix it. The least I could do was to speak against it and on behalf of those who were crushed under its wheels. The war God was the problem because he was created by patriarchs to kill off their arch-enemy, womam’s culture of love.

It would take a loverman to put superman in his place as a servant to all of us as the Lover Lovus. All was fair in love and war. Some wars were just and if saving love was not a just cause, then I didn’t know of one. The Lover needed a couple of good men and a few good womem to do the job. I wanted to be one of the men.

“And I’ll be one of the womem,” countered Joy. She enjoyed getting the last word in. I didn’t say anything but I gave her my best Mona Lisa smile.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 35

This house is built around a central Cor; Love herself is the all around metaphor. At the heart of consciousness is a sacred circle, a curving compass line to enfold him and her. Fold the circle and look up and see the hidden heart of Love’s mystery. All the power of heaven and earth from this point takes its birth. The Holy of Holies was entered once a year; the veil was parted with trembling and fear; for Mars and Thor stand at the door with the blood and gore of ancient lore. The Cor Godus is a mass of sacrifice; she wins the War at a massive price. The Gods of War think the Cor’s a bore; their thirst for blood is the story of the tyrannosaur; the thrill of power and the glory of a tyrant’s War. The God of War uses a front man like Hitler and even Satan needs a numb man like Himmler. Love herself shines through the soldier’s gore; Love himself sighs through the mother’s door; Love itself signs through the Lover’s Cor. Genghis Khan warred across the steppes of Asia; Napoleon had his visions of four steps to fantasia. The warlords and their sore swords will end up in Auschwitz; the tables will turn and fables burn when the cards switch. The white houses will burn with the bushes when Love cleans her house with scrubbers and brushes. Those who live by the sword will die by the sword. I pray, let me die in the Love of my lady and lord. I’ll use every means at my disposal to fulfill my vow and my original proposal. I set my sights on the Cor of your house and claim my rights to be your true spouse. I’ll be a Mars to win the soul of Love and the heart of Lovus; I’ll walk the path you have trod. All is fair in Love and War; I can’t forswear you anymore. I prepare to come through your door; to find what I’m looking for: to take Joy in you more and more, to make Love with you forever more and mate with your sweet and loving Cor.


Prose 35

I reach the crest of an undulating wave on the life stream of consciousness. From here I can jump off the wave and shoot for the top or surf down to another trough. Or I can call the whole thing off and just be as I always was, am and will be.

Who am I? For lack of a better answer, the Lover is my self description of who I am. I get fifty-two answers when I unpack that word, Lover. The Lovus is one of the fifty-two consciousness cards and corresponds to the Hierophant in tarot cards.

Hierophant means sacred or holy show. The patriotic God is a show off, one big religious production and political campaign. The Lover and I play along because everything is sacred and nothing is sacred. The Hierophant is the Lover in cross dress. The soft eyes and delicate hands give her away. If she can play man, so can I.

Like her sisters, the High Priestess and Justice, she sits between pillars to show off he authority. The church state show requires a context. This one is Christian but it could be played on any of the countless religious and political stages of history.

Real authority is from the Lover’s heart, portrayed by her red vestment, the color of the earth and her red blooded people. The authority of Love needs no show but even if the Lover were  to dress in the  commonest garb, we would have to look past that show to see who she is. In any case, we would only be seeing ourselves.

The Lover is a Cor Lovus and a War Godus. All is fair in Love and War. Cor means heart in Latin. She puts on a show for us, depending on what we like. For those who love their Cor, she shows her heart. For those who love war, she shows her sword. As Lovus, she is us, and we get what we ask for, in Love or war.

I ask for her heart. I address her as “Cor Lovus,” Lover, Radha, Allah, Jesus, Moses, Krishna, Great Spirit, Mother, Father or whatever suits her pleasure.

The Lover is the Heart of God, the inner Cor of the outer war God. Lover and Godus, reveal yourself to God. Give him back his heart. Show him that he is you.

The patriarchal war God is a power to contend with, an anti-love triumvirate money and sex power complex. By getting this far, I win V more love credits for a sum of 115. My powers are strong and getting stronger as I go onward on my journey.


21 Line Poem 35

O Wisdom, gentle lady

With the eyes of knowing

Make smooth the troubled waters

Buffeting our battered ships

Winding their way

Through the pathways of learning

Steer us clear

Of rocks and whirlpools

That catch and toss us

Into delays and dangers

Divining wand of guidance

Show us the dance steps

That lift us up the staircase

Of our own delight

Be a lighthouse on the shore

Of the starry sky above

Reach into the small eddies

Of our experience, teaching

To set or strike our sails

O Wisdom, gentle lady

With the eyes of knowing


Sixth Line in Seven Levels


A crystal rainbow tower

Stands tall for all to see

Scattering light like mist

From an overflowing fountain

Fulfilling an ancient covenant

Of everlasting beauty

Written from earth to sky

A cathedral on inner vision

It floods the countryside

With sparkling gifts

For flowers and trees alike

I stand in wonder

That I passed this way before

And missed its radiant presents

I unfold my petals

And make myself a vine

To climb this cathedral

Through the glowing hues

I scale the joyful frequencies

Winding my way inward

Toward the source of light


Love 36

Step 36

One of Light


Mud and Blood

Eight of Cups and Knight of Wands

Red Blood

Lover Blood

Story 36

This house was an electrocardiogram. The graph line spiked and troughed. I wondered how Dr. Joy would read my heart chart.

“Column five is about having a life and column six enlightening that life. The other columns show your numbers, timing, spacing, form, life and how sound you are. Your heart is good but it needs a tune up.”

She was being kind but she made me feel good. My heart line dropped down to the base of the light column where a man trudged through a swamp and a red plumed knight rode a rearing horse. She was in a rush that brooked no delay.

“Red is the color of love and blood, and angry fire. The Lover is a red-blooded Lovus. We are saved by womam’s blood which is shed in timing with the Lover’s body, the moon and communities of womem.

“Ancient blood rituals of womem were natural and sacred with real sacramental effects. Masturbation was honored, not hidden and shamed. Womem’s love charged fluids fed the gardens and rejuvenated the culture. Patriarchs made war against womem’s bloodlines, inventing a bodyless, bloodless and compensatory bloodthirsty war God, concockting salvation by a heavenly man’s blood sacrifice.

“Since that story makes no sense, they forced it by bloody penis swords, switching the whole meaning of blood. Blood love became blood lust. Driven by envy for womam’s blood power and greased by the slippery slope of hunting, men demanded animal and human sacrifices to fill their bellies and coffers. In Christianity, Jesus was a disguised womam bleeder. The body and blood of the Lover turned into a Mass of ‘This is my body’ and ‘This is my blood.’ Rivers of blood spilled down the ages from patriarchy’s denial of natural facts and lust for unnatural power.

“Patriarchy is a culture of blood desecration. In its terror of womam’s blood, it flies to a bloodless fantasy heaven, destroying earth, womem and children in its wake. It has no intention of saving the earth. Womem, not women, are saviors.”

I was grateful, given my patriarchal history, and invited the Lover to give me a transfusion of her red blood to recharge my tired love and blood stagnation.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 36

The card called Red is the light column’s base; the Red colored card is the light suit’s ace. The room called Red in on the very first floor; the password Red opens this magic card door. I began my house out of Mud and Blood, up on a hill away from the flood. Blood, sweat and tears poured the floor; it took ten years to find the door. I started with a bucket of Red clay Mud; began the wall with a reclaimed stud. The house has grown over the years; I’ve grown too past my fears. If you want to know, Love, the house is you; the writing on the wall tells it true. The roof I made keeps out the rain; I wish you’d come in out of the pain. I wish to love you’d get out of your head and come to bed in a room of Red. Red is the life of blood and sign of love. It pours like a flood from the heart above. Play your Red card, the light suit’s ace; it’s not that hard to find Love’s face. With Red in my veins, I can take the pains and heavy rains. With Red in my blood, I can get down in the Mud and brave the flood. Why don’t you bet on Red blooded life; stop spilling your guts in bloody Red strife. Red hearts give me a rosy feeling; I’m a boy again on a Red wagon wheeling. When I think Red I get a feeling in my head like a soft feather bed. I think Red and I’m strong as a horse; Red Blooded Love is a powerful force. For my better knowing, I heed the Red flags blowing. Red Blood gets its color from iron; my Blood’s lively like a fire truck siren. Red is the base of the rainbow bands; I feel its pulse from my feet to my hands. Inside our skin we’re all Red within so what’s this killing of our kin? When I’m dead let it be said that my Love was Red. Red was bred in my true Love’s bed. It all started with Red clay Mud which Lovus changed to Red veined Blood. Ruby Red, make my bed, be my wife, give me life. Life will be fine Red wine when I drink of thine, sweet valentine.


Prose 36

With the red card I enter into the light suit zone. Enlightenment is no poetic fancy or red light district but a down to earth, feet on the ground heart core reality.

The Lover rides again as the Knight of Wands. She takes the masculine form and holds the red blooded male penis wand in her hand. Her red helmet plume and salamander fire clothing proclaim her vigorous feminine and masculine energy.

Horse and rider prance before three pointed pyramids. The red plume and fire  born salamanders stand for the Lover’s blood. She comes to the desert to rejuvenate it with her life force. She brings redblooded life to a barren landscape.

In the ancient creation story Lovus made man from red clayl, mud soaked with her blood flow. Male writers spun the story to bolster patriarchy but the Lover is now reversing it to align with truth. It is the Lover’s blood and water which creates man.

Without her red blooded truth the world becomes the dismal swamp of the Eight of Cups card. A sad full moon eclipses the sun while a red dressed figure plods through a dark green swamp. In this dark scene the Lover gets down in the mud.

The stories of knights in shining armor rescuing damsels in distress reveal an important reality. The earth and her children need saving by a womam’s consciousness using the male penis power wand. Womam saves with her creative blood flow.

The patriarchal writers made the Lover’s blood flow into a destructive Kali. It’s not true. Male gods like Yahweh are destructive. Womem’s blood is restorative.

If the world is to be saved from male destruction, the story must be set straight. Womam is the red blooded savior. She’sus was a womam. When the soldier pierced her side, blood and water flowed out, a euphemism for menstruation and ovulation.

I am a sagittarian centauress, a horsewomam horsepower sign which paves Love’s way. I get off the horse and set her free. I stand on my own two humam feet.

I say “Red Blood” and feel red blooded love course through my veins. Horse and pyramid power flow with the Lover’s bloodline into The Love Government.

The eight cups and knightly wand have sex. My blood rouses in the hallowed cup and holy wand. I win eight cup and one wand powers for 56 wands and 57 cups.


21 Line Poem 36

From heaven’s horizon

A Jacob’s ladder descends

In cascading quantum leaps

Unrolling its rungs

Into a hierarchy of lovedoms

Returning home, I glance upward

And grasp the rail to steady my step

So many ups and downs

Without ever counting them

Still there they stay

Like some Mayan stairway

Or Egyptian pyramid

Or paintworn entryway to an upper room

They all seem to know their place

Lining up in the same direction

From bottom to top

Why rail at or fear an arrangement

Of simple stones or leveled boards

As above so below

All I really need to know

Is how to take one step after the other


Love 37

Step 37

2 of Light


Pyre and Fire

Page of Wands and Queen of Cups

Orange Fire

Lover Fire

Story 37

The first stop on the light line had made my blood a brighter shade of red. I was getting warmer as the joyus sagittarian horse womam sped off into the sunset on her Pegasus steed. From the sun she dealt the first two light cards, red and orange. We went from red blood to orange fire. A page embraced her fiery clitopenis wand and a queen held her uterine eucharist cup of fire.

Joy picked up the beat and sexual heat. “Love is carried by blood and burns like fire. The page offers her blood filled penisclitoris to the queen’s vulva chalice in the sacred sacrament of Mass-turbation. Mass-tur-bation with the Lover is Mass-turned-oblation. The purpose is not personal pleasure but sacred service to the body of the Lover. Love and sex are little deaths of the small self and breaths of the large self. Sexual fire is a funeral pyre where the dross is burned and turned into a sacred love crest.

“Patriarchy turns sex into a commodity it can sell. Matrilovry remasters and abates the sickish hates of self-serving pates. Sacred sexual service saves the earth, womam and children from psychopathic predators, wolves in sheep’s clothing. Hate pates made masturbation a mortal sin to fry noncompliers in hell, peddling guilt, fear, confusion and porn so they could sell snake oil for a disease they created.

“Love is a ring of fire. If you can’t take the heat, don’t go near the pyre. Walking on coals is child’s play compared to sex with the Lover. Her adult house of love is not rated with a patriarchal triple xxx but with a womamarchal triune triple ooo. Only the pure of heart will survive the firewalk on her burning path through her firestorm gate.

“She’sus said children entered her lovedom because they were pure of heart. Sex in the service of earth, womem and children is salvation by fire. Patriporners will be recycled on pyres to burn until they learn the difference between sacred and sacral sex, a call made by love’s umpire, not guns for hire.”

Joy was a poet. She started rhyming with her ending’s timing. It was time for us to get in phase like lasars on lovespeed. That would bend not only space-time and energy-mass but the straight arrow of the patriarchal phallus palace. Another down pat patrix matrix shapeshifted into a pretty pretzel by love physics 101.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 37

The card you dealt gave me a flush, made my senses rush like Fire in brush. The color Orange is the image of Fire; yearning Orange is the heart’s desire, a brush of death in a blazing Pyre. Orange is the color of burning blood, the flood in the veins from the remains of Love. The root of Fire is desire; is there something you wanted that you felt was flaunted and has kindled your raging ire? I don’t want to put it out or stop your shout; I don’t blame you for the flame you throw except your game has made me lame, you know. Someday we’ll meet on Orange Street and our torn land will be an Orange land. When I sat by the Fire in the cabin, I thought of you and how it could happen. I came in from the night and saw you burning bright. I came in from the rain and felt you once again. Your flames were dancing there throwing shadows in the air. I shook off the cold and let your warmth unfold, left behind the dark and heard your Fire spark. I say your flames burning as your eyes were turning, embracing me with knowing in that Orange lit glowing. In the flicker of the flame, you recognized my name, knew from where I came. I won’t forget that night when you warmed me through and through; I won’t forget the light that surrounded me and you. Come into my house, Love, you’re on Fire. It’s not time yet for the funeral Pyre. Come out of the outrage where you’ve been mired. Come into my cottage, the woodstove’s been fired. You’ve got a home where you can rest in peace. It has an Orange tree and an eternal lease. When you’re tired of the rat wired race and you’re ready for a warm embrace, cease to roam and come on home. The Fire in the hearth is the desire in your heart. Do not be afraid, the bed’s been made, the wedding sheets laid.


Prose 37

On my journey through the spectrum of light, I change from red to orange. My red blood becomes orange fire. The Love Government flows like blood and burns like fire. On this step the Lover is an orange haired queen with a chalice of fire.

Fire, water, earth and air swirl around her. Baby mermaids holding a fish and conch play on her throne. Two dark angels guard her holy grail cup of sacred fire.

As the page of wands, the Lover stands before three pyramids, clothed with fire salamanders and holding a symbolic wand penis. A red feather decorates her hat. The Lover is a red and orange sexual fire, a flaming torch, a page and a queen.

Love is an all consuming fire. In the end, stars burn up. My body will burn in a pyre of flame or will do a slow burn in a grave. The one of everything will turn to the zero of nothing, with fire tempered love remaining as the soul of everything in nothing.

I may as well jump right into the fire ring of love and be swept along in her lava flow. Fire is below and above, in the heart of the earth and the hearth of the sun and stars. Without a fire tempered government of love, hearts turn cold as stone.

Once a month fire and blood flow from the Lover’s womamly body. This is life giving nurturance to a world starving for love. The queen sees the fire that comes from her belly in her holy grail cup. She’s the Holy Grail. She’s She’sus.

The Lover as page performs the sacred act of masturbation, with herself and with her Lover, the mass offering of love in a turned and bated personal oblation.

The Lover has come to cast fire on the earth and is restless until it be ablaze. Her government is flaming love and flowing blood, a blazing fire of love’s desire.

The cup will overflow with blood. The wand will burst into fire. The cup and the wand, the womam and male Lover will unite and ignite, in a sunstar night.

I say “Orange Fire” to kindle the Lover’s flame in my heart. I serve her Lover Government with devotional fire. This whole house of cards will fall into the fire and all that is left is who I am. I am the Lover, the living flame and fire of love.

The queen and page have sex with themselves and each other. The wand penetrates the cup. This act of love adds one cup and wand power to my firepower.


21 Line Poem 37

I came in from the night

And saw you burning bright

I came in from the rain

And felt you once again

Your flames were dancing there

Throwing shadows in the air

I shook off the cold

Let your warmth unfold

Left behind the dark

Heard your fire spark

I saw your flames burning

As your eyes were turning

Embracing me with knowing

In the orange lit glowing

In the flicker of the flame

You recognized my name

Knew from where I came

I won’t forget that night

When you warmed me through

I won’t forget that light

That surrounded me and you


Love 38

Step 38

Three of Light


Gun and Sun

The Sun

Yellow Sun

Lover Sun

Story 38

As the fire burned down, the sun turned up. Orange changed to yellow as the next card turned over a sagittarian sun child. I thought of Joy, my shape shifting shawomam. This card fit her childlike fire loving nature to a T.

“Who? Me? Why not thee? When the sun rises on yon eastern hill, we’ll all be sun children in the home of Mother Lovus. You’re living in the dark ages of patriarchy but take heart: it’s darkest just before dawn. The Lover Sun wanted to experience the darkness so her joy would be complete.

“She’ll take the best of all worlds and make a new Love Government. Be patient. Salvation by men has been tried and found wanting. The house of the rising Lover’s sun is a womam’s body. The sign of the times is womam as the sun.

“The macho, Mayan, male, math calendar is ending. The patriarchal house of cards is falling like London Bridge. The male penis gun will be melted down by a womam sun. Father sons will realign with mother suns. War will wane and peace be won. Don’t worry about the hows and whys. Cries of earth, womem and children will be heeded, and yes, men will be needed, kneaded by womem for the great work of restoration.

“Son suns will keep hearth fires warm for womem and children. You will be enlightened when you see that earth is the center of the universe after all, as well as the circumference and every radius. Ensunment is breaking free.

“Metaphors have a knack for being ironic, paradoxical and reversible. Small is beautiful, containing all. It’s Chrestmas every day and the Lover gives you gift wrapped boxes within boxes forever.”

I was beginning to feel like Christmas whatever the time of year.

“True, you are lighter and warmer in the sunshine but there’s still karma to burn and promises to keep before we sleep with the Lover. What you see is what you get and you haven’t seen anything yet. I’ve made this house run countless times and every time is the first time. Once is not enough and once is all there is.”

I quickly added: when herstory is his. I could do a rhyming ending too and get the last word in too. Joy gave me her sexiest Mona Lisa smile.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 38

Yellow is the sunlord of this house of light, a card character in his own right; a master of his solar system; life here rises and falls with him. When I feel heavy with that old gloom and doom, I go inside to his upper room. When I made the Sun, Lovus said well done. I painted the Sun Yellow; I wanted to feel mellow. It used to be a Sun world but now it’s a Gun world; wish it were a fun world. Boys used to paint by number; now they kill and plunder; makes me sit and wonder. In bed she said to me: I’m afraid we’re growing apart; I said how can that be, Love, when the Sun’s only got one heart. I was thinking in my head about what she said on the day we were wed about that Sun being one. They say I was a coward on the day I was overpowered but is was only cheap talk by a chickenhawk; he had a Yellow forty-four but he was coward to the core. The son of a Sun said to the son of a Gun: look at what you’ve done, what you’ve begun. Yellow runs like a streak down the back from fear and lack. I run too when under attack. When the card’s dealing that low down feeling, I remember I am a Sun loved being. When I’m going downward like a Yellow coward, I turn to my sunlord and keep going forward. The Sun and Gun went asunder, the Gun got buried in the Sun six feet under. It’s all one, said the Sun. Take a walk in the park, I’m a spark in the dark. The Sun center holds together in all kinds of weather and is not that hard to enter. The Sun and Gun are signs of the time; I know which one I’ll make mine. I’ll be Yellow and run, not from a Gun but to the Sun. If I die tomorrow in Gun downed sorrow, call me Yellow, call me mellow but call me the Sun’s son same fellow. Yellow coward, son of a Gun, shoot your Gun at the Sun, not at a little one. Yellow Sun, make my day; melt every Gun, throw them away. So I pray that we can play, out of harm’s way.


Prose 38

Three is the number of power. The sun appears as the Three of Light on the third level in the suit of light. A yellow sun rules our solar system and solar plexus.

The Lover is a sagittarian child, riding a white horse and holding a red banner. She is child, sun, horse, flowers, banner and sky all wrapped up in one sun sign.

I align myself and everything in me with her. She is my sun, my day star and night north star. She lights up my day and night as sunshine and white horse knight.

The Lover is sun Lovus, solar system center and sacred temple flame. She was worshipped as sun Lovus before the patriarchs set themselves up as son gods.

The Lover now takes her proper place as womam sun who gives birth to male sons. I am a son to Mother Earth and a daughter to the mother of suns and stars.

Men invented the gun to replace worship of the sun. Moneyists worship their gun in all its guises. The phallic gun is a wanton corruption of the womam sun.

Sons of guns have preempted their fathers, magic wands and manly swords. Guns kill womem and children. Guns are peverted penises, sick patriarchal power tools, gunfathers to a myriad of old boys’ toys in a technological wasteland of terror.

The Lover smiles like the Mona Lisa at this male folly. She rides in her sun chariot day after day and night after night on both sides of her round earth. She bides her time until we learn that patriarkill money is the earth’s scourge.

In the meantime, as a child she has the male membership of her government well in hand. A flowing, spiraling red banner proclaims her red blood life force, waving rays of sun flowers and one loving sunshine.

To hell with the guns. Give me her suns, her stars and her sons. Her yellow sun is pure son gold to me. It shines in my heart always, regardless of the outside weather. I don’t need a weatherman to tell which way the solar love winds blow.

Like my Lover, I am a sagittarian child, riding rays to the Heart of Hearts. It’s all the Lover and I am her, the daughter of Mother Sun.

I pick up XIX love units in this valley of the sun for a total of 134. I feel the sun’s power warming my body and enlightening my mind for the work to be done.


21 Line Poem 38

There you are

Bright morning star

In my eyes

An old surprise

With each arise

Make me mellow

With your yellow

Cheer me up

Fill my cup

Nothing new under you they say

Make me the exception every day

Brother Sun, chase Sister Moon

Play on me a merry tune

Grow the trees

If you please

All fulfill

If you will

Worshipped through the ages

By great and mighty sages

In my temple set your shrine

From its portals rise and shine


Love 39

Step 39

Four of Light


Mean and Clean

Five of Swords and Nine of Pentacles

Clean Green

Lover Green

Story 39

“When the Lover menstruated, her blood created spiraling Gaia. Her blood caught fire and swirled into starry suns, including menstruated sons. Some blood cooled and formed lush green worlds. Green seas grew life. See the picture of a garden of Eden and warden of Evil.” Joy’s words were magic materializing what they mentioned. Eve appeared in her garden and Evil on his pavement, one scene clean and the other mean.

“The Garden of Earth is a Lovus centerpiece mistresspiece, paradise here imagined by patriarchs out there. The green eyed serpent of jealously whispered in their envious ears that they too could be like womem by inventing a far off heaven which they could control and charge entrance fees to the gullible. They fell from womam, hit their heads on rock bottom and saw stars which they thought were themselves.

“The stars they saw were not droplets of mother’s milky way but goblets of money’s ilk, unholy grails of stolen blood. They rejected love, covering their treachery by calling it love and making up stories to blame their rebellion on womem.

“The garden of womam culture produced sweet fruit. Under waxen surfaces and seductive ads, pat culture produced packaged poison. By their fruits you will know them. Nothing but noxious weeds and woes grow on terrorist towers.

“If you are to save yourself from being crushed by cruel karmic towers, go for a new deal of Gaia Green. Co-opting the green surface is just another put down strategy. Patriarchy is the green eyed mobster of jealousy of womem and her love culture. Follow patri-terrorism to its lair past the three headed dragon of money, sex and power with its forked double tongues. Slay the devil dragon liar there in his lair.

“Kill the patpathic monster with love and gently bring the cowering lmen behind the curtain out of the closet and into the garden. Start a mean green revolution.”

I thought greens were weak in the knees and soft  in the head, like blue nosed republicrats afraid of the slimy green mess under the shiny green message. Spoiled greens, soylant grains and soiled guns needed a green Mr. Clean to restore Eve’s garden. I gathered Joy was telling me to be love’s gardener and recycler.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 39

Green turned up with the luck of the draw. She was the gentlest card I ever saw. The four of light was one beautiful sight; Green branched flower at her breast, in nature’s color she was dressed. Of all the cards I’ve ever seen,  none compares with joyous Green. She walks among the shady trees, tosses her hair in the gentle breeze, passes through the fallen leaves, trailing down her Green hued sleeves. When I’m weak with grief or pain, I come to her in woods or plain. When that Green eyed monster jealously comes round my door acting Mean to me, when I lose hope in humanity and give up faith in divinity, I remember my dream and the womam in Green. Jealous Green looks to what others hold which makes his heart grow steely cold. Joyous Green sees what others possess which adds to her serene happiness. Joyous and jealous are both within us; Jesus and Judas battle between us. Green is the color of things that grow; Green is the garden where soft winds blow. The Green wooded world washes me Clean and recycles envious thoughts that are Mean. Beautiful color of nature’s dress, flowing in the wind’s caress, healing hue for the troubled mind, hew from me the ropes that bind. Oasis in the burning sand, refuge with a sheltering hand, color of the towering trees, shimmering in the morning breeze, I look to you when strength is spent, in your shade I rest content. You walked with Lovus in the garden, prayed with Jesus for sinners’ pardon. You shelter sparrows in your nest, shadown travelers as they rest. You take your shading from the sun, paint the meadows just for fun. When Love made you she thought of peace, saw the days when war would cease, felt the loving calm increase. The kindest color I’ve ever seen, enfolded her in softest Green. Tree of life, be my wife; root me down in the ground; lift me high into the sky.


Prose 39

As I progress up the spectrum of light, the air gets rarer and cooler. Red, orange and yellow are hot colors. The green zone is temperate. I come into the Eden garden color of consciousness. Green is the color of trees, plants and meadow grasses.

The Nine of Pentacles is a womam in her garden, Eve in paradise. She is surrounded by grape vines with their purple fruit. The trees of life and knowledge are like two pillars. The inside of her dress and her cap are red for her womam’s blood.

The bird on her hand is hooded in red. She sees not with physical eyes but with a red blooded connection to all of life. Yellow light floods the scene from the sky and the nine gold pentacles. A turreted house peaks in from the green background.

In card language, the Lover speaks to us of the beauty of nature. She says to take our time like the snail at her feet. The snail carries her spiraled conch house like we carry consciousness, our own kind of invisible conchhouse and secure sanctuary.

I use green to clean my consciousness like the green forests clean the air and the atmosphere. We need the power of green to stop the destruction of the earth by mean men. I say “Clean Green” to stop money and power in their bulldozer tracks.

The Five of Swords symbolizes a mean mentality. A green vested man looks on two others who appear to be hurt. The scene is cold with jagged clouds overhead.

A green eyed monster of envy and greed is destroying the garden of the earth. I need to clean my own house of consciousness and balance my meanness with the Lover’s government of beauty and peace. I see a green earth under a blue sky.

The mean cities we live in are an aberration of nature. Our car culture is an unnatural disaster. Green is a color of balance and healing, a soothing medicine.

I feel sad at what we are doing to ourselves and the green earth. As I rouse myself with a green consciousness, so does the Lover because we are one. The body of the earth and body of the Lover breathe together. I breathe with their breath.

I score 9 pentacle points in the garden and 5 sword powers at the seaside by making love in garden and sea. My powers of love have mounted to a grand total of 48 coins, 58 cups, 57 wands, 58 swords and 134 notes. With each advance I gain.


21 Line Poem 39

Beautiful color of nature’s dress

Flowing in the wind’s caress

Healing hue for the troubled mind

Hew from me the ropes that bind

Oasis in the burning sand

Refuge with a sheltering hand

Color of the towering trees

Shimmering in the morning breeze

I look to you when strength is spent

In your shade I rest content

You walked with love in the garden

Prayed with She’sus for sinners’ pardon

You shelter sparrows in your nest

Shadow travelers as they rest

You take your shading from the sun

Paint the meadows just for fun

When love made you she thought of peace

Saw the days when wars would cease

Felt the loving calm increase

The kindest color I’ve ever seen

Enfolded her in softest green


Love 40

Step 40

Five of Light


Sad and Glad


Glad Blue

Lover Blue

Story 40

Completing the green level added nine pentacles and five swords to my store. My increasing stock of male wands and swords, womamly cups and coins and lovars was making me feel confident. Not overconfident I hoped because I had lingering memories of my powerless lost in the woods scare. Joy was taking me home but it was no hop, skip and jump into hopscotch heaven. For all her frivolity, Joy was up to serious business. The question was: was I up to it?

“If you thought green was a scene, wait until blue shows you what you once knew.”

I was blown away by a trumpet and the grand entrance of an angel and bodies leaving graves like snakes from baskets charmed by flute players. The last judgement came sooner than I expected. But then expect the unexcepted from Joy.

“Expecting a doomsday apocalypse is false anticipation. Judgement comes with each thought, choice and act. It doesn’t come out of the blue but is inside of you. The biggest tomfoolery of patrimalarky is that love’s government is passe and the patri-club is judge, jury and generalissimo. Patricourts are such thick jungles of false judgements that when the chickens come home to roost they won’t find a perch.

“Judging is awesome power. If you want real power, judge with love until your black blood robes turn red with love. If your heart is judgement black, get off that torture rack because it’s a fast track to hell on earth.

“As you judge, so you will be judged. I think someone else said that. The system judges to protect its protection racket. I said that. Judges are shills for bankster tills until they learn the law of love for everyone, not only friends of the court. A judge who bucks the system is a judge bucked off the system. The buck stops at the big banks. I wouldn’t bank on banks if I were you. In the patrimoney caste system, the law of love is cast out of court.”

I had enough experience with courts to know what Joy was talking about. For justice, I appealed to a higher court, on that had love authority. The only justice I can say Your Honor to without cringing is one who swear allegience to the flag of  love. Let love judge me. I’ll say Your Honor to her with pride and joy.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 40

The card you drew predicted true; I thought you knew that love was Blue. The five of light is two steps from white; play it right with Blue eyed sight. The Blue sky makes me high; when I die let me lie in a bed of Blue next to you. When you made Blue I think you knew what I’d do to be with you. Because of you, life is deja vu, coming back to the you I knew. Blue is the color of my true Love’s eyes, the mother of my love sick sighs. My sad heart cries when I hear your lies and cannot unlock your where’s and why’s. I think of Blue and I think of you; I thought you knew what to do but you’re so sad and Blue; heart’s been hurt, black and Blue. Little boy Blue, see the sky above; you’re not through with her sweet love; out of the Blue she’ll come to you; she drew the sky Blue to mirror you. Glad and Sad are two sides of you; let them spin and come within your bird’s eye view and your heart’s review. Even the Blues are good news; turn the card around with that bluesful sound. Listen to what the bluebirds say on their sad and mournful day. Oh, baby Blue, sail down that Blue river of dreams; follow your Blue eyed consciousness streams. I loved you then and I love you now; we’ll make it through the Blues somehow. The Blue sky’s up there in the air, a sign of Love’s care everywhere. Beautiful Blue is a twofold sign: Glad and Sad sing and pine; someday, Blue, I’ll make you mine in that heart past reason and rhyme. Lady Blue, it’s you I knew when the bell rang true and the flowers grew and the world was new. I’ve come to know what’s above’s below: the sea and sky are you and I. Don’t cry when I die; see my eye in the sky. Once in a Blue moon at summer’s high noon I get a chance like this: to give you a lover’s kiss. The Blue skies are your eyes looking through to me from you. The card you drew came up Blue, told you again what you knew.


Prose 40

As I rise higher in consciousness, I come to judgement. It is fitting that a wide open blue sky should be the place of judgement because everything will be revealed and in the open.

The Lover appears as angel of the blue sky, trumpet in hand. Bodies rise from their tombs or descend into them. The clouds and snowy mountains show this is no ordinary place. The red cross banner gives an emergency feeling to the scene.

This card is about us and speaks in sign language. Judgement is buried deep down in our genes and interred with our bodies. It comes to us out of the blue and in the day to day, nitty gritty of karmic recycling chronic pain patterns.

Every thought, feeling, motion and choice are trumpets of judgement we lay upon ourselves. God, last days, angels and final judgements are mythical stories. The truth behind the stories stands firm as bedrock. Judgement will not be mocked.

Judgements arise in reference to some standard of judgement. In the Lover’s government that standard is love. Love judges all of us by a lover’s karmic law.

The law of love reigns and rules. Most of us don’t know it and that’s why we are so miserably lost and confused. We are judging by a million false judgements.

Love is all there is, and without love, confusion and misery reign rampant. All the smiles and pretenses cannot cover up the pain and agony of false judgements.

Blue sky makes us feel glad but the judgement blues can make us sad when we’re not judging with the Lover. True judgement hurts good like truth hurts good.

I hear the angel Lover blowing her trumpet. It’s a call to true judgement under blue skies. I judge myself and everything else according to the standard of love.

I say “Glad Blue,” keeping one eye on “Sad Blue.” My sad blues come from lack of true judgement and love. The Lover is the angel of my heart. I judge everything by my relationship to her. She’s the essence of The Love Government.

Love of the world’s poor separates sheep from goats and makes bodies rise or fall in judgement. The angel of justice raises or lets us fall according to our love.

I pick up XX love notes for judging according to love’s standard which makes my total notes 154. My heart is glad clad and my judgements are true blue.


21 Line Poem 40

Majestic canopy for the earth

From the light you take your birth

I have often wondered why

You became the color of the sky

Was it to mark the seeing eye

The same as an expanse so high

So my vision would expand inside

When my eye roamed far and wide

Or was it to match sky and sea

So it would be clearly shown to me

And I would surely come to know

That as above, so below

Or was it to teach me of my trip

In ancient or modern ship

Through watery or cosmic sea

To fulfil a waiting destiny

On a long and winding heroine journey

Or was it to be a beautiful veil

Until the stars again prevail

And remove their cover by degrees

My Love, I fall upon my knees


Love 41

Step 41

Six of Light


Tower and Power

The Tower

Purple Tower

Lover Purple

Story 41

Out of the blue, Joy appeared like a purple horizon. “Your will is my command. I’m your Genie in a bottle. I love to be rubbed the right way. Service is my joy. I’ve got the cure for the patrifatal blues. Watch this.”

Hermione Joy pointed her wand and a mighty tower erected itself, rolling power towers into one, from London Tower Eifel Towr. “Behold Sir Penis, every pat’s wet pet dream, from Mt. Olympus to Mr. Sinai, from Babel Highrise to Aztec Hill, lords of earth with erector sets to heaven, jacks on beanstalks and kings of hills.”

Joy was having fun and maybe sex, pushing petpricks to the outer limit and off the edge. “Your modern skyscrapers and cloud piercers take the top gun prize. It doesn’t take a locker room to show who has the biggest trophy. The 911 twin towers broke the one tower per man barrier and made it two bats for two balls. 911 was an insider blow job, mobster on bankster, an inside joke playing on the 911 emergency number. 911 truth is a litmus test separating penises from pricks and balls from baloons. Pates blew their cover but this holocaust denial won’t make history, only herstory heresy.”

Joy was more than a 911 truther. She was a patprick rotorooter. Not even 911 truthers could get their heads patritrickery. Patriarchs did soft headed patsies every which way and made them pay for it too at the price of their souls. Joy blew my blues away with her whistle blowing victory parade.

“Here’s a truth than not even 911 truthers will touch: 911 is patriarchy in minature, a symbol of macroture evil. That’s a hot potato too hot to handle and keep your job and down pat lifestyle. I’ll demonstrate how love speaks truth to power.”

Joy became Jove, striking the pat tower with lightning and thunderboltsll, sucking patrirubble down a rabbit hole. On the compost smiled a purple flower.

“Behold the power behind the thrones of towers: the purple vulva flower of womamhood. When the hard reign is over and gone, gentle, genital flowers remain. The Lover will come like a thief in the night and steal your heart away. A man will discover who he is, and oh, what a lucky man is he.”

This mansion turned out to be a purple passage to an inner sanctum of joy.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 41

Purple is a color like no other: the color of my rich royal Lover. She lives in the suit of light, right next to crystal white, the clear color on the level above her. She wears a Purple veil in the dance of the great romance. She’s a Purple Radha, glancing in her dancing. I catch her Purple flashes sparkling through her lashes. On my inner skies with reborn eyes I see her Purple swirling galaxies and Purple mountain majesties. When I cower in an hour gone sour, Purple’s a Tower of power. Her Tower is no fable like the Tower of Babel. Her Purple Tower is no London Tower prison or ivory Tower schism; it’s a prism of clear vision. Purple’s a friend in high places with down to earth graces. Let the lords have their Tower; I’ll take my lady’s Flower; they can have their power, I’ll rest in her bower. She whispers I love you, the passwords to her bliss, a prelude to her kiss. I need no more than this. Her hair is the soft air and her feet the bottomless deep. She is everywhere and never asleep. Purple is my dearest power in life’s darkest hour. She’s next to the color black, been to the core and back, keeps me on love’s track. She wears a Purple robe, the sign of being rich. She’s rich all right, rich in Purple light. Purple is a guardian at the gate, a pure angel worth an eon’s wait. Purple is a light and dark Lovus here to love us. I’m living in her house, living like a king, living in the Purple, living with her ring. Purple Flower, bring me out of my ivory Tower to play on Mother Earth, the one who gave me birth. Purple Flower, now’s your hour. Wind your arms around my Tower of stones. Lay your Flowers on my dust dry bones. Soften my Tower of steel. Open my heart and make me real. Purple Flower, I climb your vine and drink your wine. Purple Tower, I seize your hour and seat of power. Be protectress when I roam and sweet mistress when at home.


Prose 41

My consciousness is moving into more rarified regions, toward purple hued horizons and purple mountain majesties, toward ultra-violet and ultra-purple lands.

Sometimes I see purple flashes. These are messages from the ultra-violet part of consciousness. The question is: who am I? My hypothesis is that I am the Lover.

The purple trail leads to the flower tower paradox. Can I be a gentle flower and a strong tower? Love is a many faceted and splendored thing, a flower and a tower.

When all the towers of power are gone, will there still be flowers? Yes, the flowers of love growing in an eternal paradise garden of Eve’s eternal love consciousness.

Lightning strikes the tower and sends king and queen flying. She still has her crown but he’s lost his. The tower goes up in smoke like the empires of men.

So with all high and mighty towers and their builders from the towers of Babel to the twin towers of New York. The flowers of love will flourish when the towers of power are long gone. The American empire will go the way of the Roman.

The towers than money builds have their brief day. They rest on quicksands of fraud, theft, scams, rackets, stocks, bonds, investments and the lies of patriarchy.

Flowers outlast towers because flowers have more life, more of the Lover in them, although she is both feminine flower and male tower, beauty and beast.

The lightning of love wouldn’t stike a meadow flower but those proud towers are just asking for it. Give me a cozy cottage on a flowery hill rather than a tall, cold tower on a money mountain. I make love, not money, much less war.

When I come into my home of love with the Lover, I have protection and I am not afraid. There is nothing to be afraid of because there is nothing but love.

I say “Purple Flower” to balance this world of power towers. I see flowers covering towers. When Jack and Jill finish falling down the hill and pick up their crowns, they can find a cabin in the woods and pick bouquets of purple flowers.

I’m sick of the empire builders and their penile towers. I prefer the Lover’s house where I can eat and drink of her consciousness. She’s hearth and home to me.

I win XVI love notes for my flower powers, bringing my forces to 170.


21 Line Poem 41

The travelers form a band

In the purple mountain land

The troubadours sing

At the feast of the king

The queen was seen

At six sixteen

The prince plays hearts

The cook bakes tarts

The jester tells tales

About Ireland and Wales

Ladies listen within

To the royal magician

About the  ten good men

The knight tells a story

About the days of glory

The nobles raise a toast

To the lords in golden robes

The fool falls down

And breaks his crown

The travelers take their stand

In the purple valley land


Love 42

Step 42

Seven of Light


Fear and Peer

The Magician

Clear Peer

Lover Peer

Story 42

“Tower to Delta Tango 42. Clear for landing.” Was that the voice of Joy?

Flaps down and joyjets idle, we landed with a feather touch in Magic Mansion. Magician hands signaled us in to gate seven. We had come into the clear at the top of the light line. Dizzying heights with no glass window or hand rail.

“With no support, it’s equally terrifying on the top of a tower or at the bottom of a mine shaft. When you have nothing to lean on or to hide behind, fear will appear. Miss Death gives a kiss of bliss before taking you. Whether you are smashed to bits in a freefall, are buried alive or diced and sliced is beside the point. On point is where life and death make love, and fear is cleared at zone zero.”

I was over my head and out of my depth although death got my attention even if I was doing my best to deny it.

“Watch that magic point of where nothing is everything and everything climaxes like nothing, where the magician holds the double pointed clitoris-penis baton.

“Play Magic Mass. The altar is set with wands, swords, coins and cups and you have lovar love notes in the offering basket. Your sacred grove is ringed with flowers. Red and white vestments are wedding clothes to allow you to drink the Lover’s blood and eat her body. A purple penis snake plays ring around the rosy on her pelvic crest. An infinity halo hovers overhead, not one and not two, just a lover’s flower power bed. Your hour has come to be clear of fear.”

Joy broke my mental circuits. I was overamped with her love juice.

“Mental constructs will not do; they cannot circumscribe you. When playing with fear fire, make love your ground wire lightning rod. She can take the heat and battery the charge. When you mass-tur-bate with love, you tur and abate the Lover’s body mass: trees, stones, stars, water, bodies and brains. You tur every nook and cranny of her mass and abate fear into sweetness of soul and body.”

Joy’s Mass was clear out of sight but she was right. There was more to sex than an orgasm manual and more to Mass than an altar missal.

“Delta Tango 42, clear for takeoff.” Joy was the tower and pilot. I had no fear of flying.


Stream of Consciousness Poem 42

My Lover is a pure radiant light; she shines like Clear crystal white. The colors all come from her heart; a painting composed by her art. She rises on this house with the morning sun; I’ll live as her spouse til the world is done. At night when the moon rides high overhead, my Love comes with me to lie in our bed. I swear I could hear the card called Clear; she sighed sweet and low: there’s something you know. Come to your senses, drop your defenses; come into the Clear where I’m close and near. There’s nothing to Fear if everything is here. Like my house on the hill, I grew quiet and still; the wind at my back, the night wrapped in black. In that still empty place, I found my own space. Nowhere to go and nothing to do; just the silence between me and you. All Clear, she said with a nod of her head: do not Fear, Sweet, when two ends meet. Things are not what they appear; what you’ve got is all here. Stay with me, Love, don’t run away; the light shining above invites you to stay. When you’re white with Fear, remember the light is near. My temple house is here; my sacred name is Clear. Walk down that road, the one told of old. Enter this high holy house; entertain your one only spouse. Fear will run down, Love will come down; sorrow will Clear up, your cup will fill up. When I’m gone, sing this song; I won’t be long, right or wrong. Say she is near, not to Fear; she’s in the Clear, standing here. I was thinking about you last night; thinking about that seven of light; wondering about my deepest fright; praying for some Clearing insight. It came to me and it felt just about right that all there is is Clear fearless white. Oh Clear white light, my own heart’s Peer, help me fight my cold hard Fear. Wipe away my sad eyed tear. Come, sweet light, my soul mate dear. Sweet mother of light, father’s delight, paint me bright with your sight.


Prose 42

I reach the top of the light line in consciousness. When I am enlightened I am in the Clear. All the colors are ultimately Clear. And Clear is just completely here.

The Magician magically appears here. Who is he? Or is it she in a male body?

The eternal infinity sign hovers over her head like a halo. She holds aloft the double pointed wand with one hand while the other points to the earth. A red outer garment overlies a white one. Red and white flowers surround her like a frame.

A purple snake encircles her waist, its head grasping its tail. Upon a wooden altar lie the four tools of her magic art: feminine cup and coin, male wand and sword.

The Lover is the Magician. She creates with a wave of her wand. She is the source of infinite power as indicated by the lamniscate hovering over her head.

There’s white and black magic and then there’s Clear magic. Love is Clear and Clears all difficulties. It happens in a womam’s heart rather than in a man’s head.

The round cup and coin are the womam’s tools of love and the straight wand and sword are the man’s. The rich feminine coin and deep womamly cup marry the straight sword and firm wand. 1 comes from 0 as everyman from everywomam.

Magic will return when the proper sexual order is restored. The Lover is first and foremost a womam, appearing also as a male Magician. It’s sexual magic of the highest order to be both sexes together and separately, one heart with twofold parts.

Men Fear womem because she is the greater power and superior lover. Womam internally has everything man has externally. The inner is the greater.

I am the Lover, first womam and then man. The Love Government is political magic. It sets the record straight and restores order in the house of consciousness.

I join with the Lover in establishing her government on earth and heaven. I say her magic words and use her magic cups, coins, swords and wands in the art of love.

I say “Lover” and she magically is present in and around me. I see her as the reality upon which everything is founded. The Lover is the sun and sum of my life. She is me and I am she. How can that be? It happens by the magic of love power.

I make love with her and gain one power point to make the score 171 love.

21 Line Poem 42

Mother of light

Father’s delight

Pure radiant fountain

Immeasurable treasure

Everlasting pleasure

Unlanded ocean

Freeflowing motion

Underlying supporter

Overriding protector

Cleanse and reform

Until I’m reborn

Straight and true

Close to you

Sweetest giver

Be a river

Flooding colors

Like no others

Beautiful light

Paint me bright

In your sight


Seventh Line in Seven Levels


Ultimate vibration ushering from heaven

Staff of life, bread without leaven

Cornerstone of being’s ground

Formless form in all around

Born in silence, bred in stillness

Holy of Holies, hid within us

Holy Grail, Fountain of Youth

Mother of Spirit, Father of Light

I dream of you day and night

When I heard of my heritage

I started on my pilgimage

Listening for you among the trees

Summer air, cool mountain breeze

Hearing the music of your spheres

In child’s laugh, womam’s tears

The children’s band is on a roll

A thousand voices take my soul

To where it knows its journey’s goal

The sweetest sound I ever heard

Surpassed every name and every word


Love 43

Step 43

One of Sound


Fame and Frame

King of Wands and Eight of Pentacles

A Frame

Lover Frame

Story 43

The house of light shifted suits and became a homing sound. Joy’s voice was humming on my sonar screen of consciousness. We banked and turned onto final approach. Visual mode was switched off and we were on instrument sound from here on in. The quiet voice of sound spoke louder than thunder and softer than down.

“In this house the programming runs upright, up and to the right with a paradox software where what goes up comes down and what goes around comes around. There is no up without down and no light without her sound. Hang onto your hat because we’re getting high going down on sound. Sound is the first to come and last to go. You’ll hear how to build from the ground up but you won’t be grounded until you drink soundly from the Lover’s cup of silence.”

I heard the tap tap of a hammer like raindrops on a roof. A man worked on eight pentacled humam figures while a king looked the other way sadly.

“Build your house on the solid rock of silence. What you hear is what you get. Doubt me, doubt love, doubt the Lover but when you doubt the soundness of you, you’re three strikes out. You’re made of sound first, then light, life-energy, form-mass, space, time and number. Sound is first and last. It’s a sound system.

“Even the patrismarts came close when they said God spoke, though they stole it from womam’s ritual where womem versed. Lords that they were, pats confused their own voice with the word of the Lord. Seeking the king rod of power, they were deaf to the ring circle of love. Love culture is an unsounded depth of many-splendored beauty; the pate cult is a splintered beast, Humpty Dumpty divorced from womam’s sound and her  children’s playground.

“Pat priests love to sound off about reality in terms of physics but the physics clergy miss the Lover’s Mass while gravitating to her, energy bunnies who forget who winds up the system by which they run. Religion pats stonewall his-story to divide the booty with science, anything to bolster patriarchy and to prevent the sound of womam’s truth from shattering their shaky, paper-thin unsound fool’s gold ground.”

Joy sounded good. I’d build a house on her ground any day.

Stream of Consciousness Poem 43

A starts out the English alphabet; it’s the shortest English word you can get. It looks like an arrow pointing up, aiming at the proverbial holy grail cup. The roof of consciousness is shaped like an A; it brings the structure of the cosmos into play: smaller at the top and bigger at the bottom, containing all the teachings we’ve forgotten. The universe is managed from the top on down; otherwise in chaotic confusion you will drown. Love is at the top ruling all from start to stop and tall to small. Love is at the center of consciousness; Love is the very heart of all of us. The house of consciousness is a sturdy A Frame; that’s all of us playing the consciousness game. There’s a mighty A Frame that is vast and little with a line in the middle to cut Love’s riddle. The point at the top is infinitely thin; pierces the outside to what is within. Love is the invisible point that cuts on through; cuts through the crap to the vision of you. When I was in school, grade A gave me Fame; it was the beginning of the end in that God awful game. In the game Fame of A everyone loses; smiling faces just cover the bruises. When I give up the A Fame, I feel so much better; I will serve the universal A Frame’s ordinary letter. My A Frame house is an ascending rocket ship; I’m on the ride of my life in the joy of Love’s grip. The A Frame is steady in the greatest earthquake; it’s on sturdy ground impossible to shake. Love is the point at the house’s apex; Love is the base in the world’s context. I don’t fear what’s been or what will come next; Love is my bible and constitutional text. I don’t have insurance but I feel I’m secure; you are my home for richer or poorer. All earthly houses are just pointers to you, A Frame arrows to the home I once knew. I am Odysseus returning from the battle of Troy to the home of my youth and to the wife of my joy. I stop only to start until I drop in her heart.

Prose 43

The last column in this house is the suit of sound. The direction of our consciousness is up and to the right, upright to a sound and upright consciousness.

In this suit, sound runs from A to G, like a musical scale. Consciousness is music to my ears, the voice of the Lover, the music of the spheres, tuned to Love.

In this house, A is an A Frame that sits on top of a foursquare Frame. A is the Frame of the universe, narrow at the top and broad at the bottom, from nothing to everything and 0 to 1; from nothing thin at the top to everything thick at its base.

I build my consciousness with every word, thought and deed. I raise my consciousness like a house. Why? For the sake of everlasting, boundless Love.

It must be so because physical house and body will die, and everything else that is not essentially me. I remain who I am because I am the Lover who is nothing and everything. She is the foundation’s foundation, the unchanging Love of Loves.

The only Frame that stands forever is an unshakable Frame that cannot be measured or counted. The Lover just is and so am I, an indestructible Frame of Love.

The King of Wands represents worldly Fame. This is a king of ancient, deep and powerful Fame to judge by his symbols of lizard, salamander and lion. He is the king of kings holding his symbolic penis, the rod and staff of patriarchal power.

I build a Frame of consciousness for the sake of Love. Build it and she will come. The Lover comes to my house of consciousness, attracted by its magnetism.

Consciousness is a house of cards, rising and falling with each breath, heartbeat and blink of the eye, all a passing game, story, pastime and play of words.

It is the Lover’s body, birthing and dying, rising and falling. I say her name and play her love game. He name is a game Frame for holding and generating love.

The practice of chanting names is as old as the hills. The name of the game is the game of the name. You name it and you can have it. You can have the Fame of this world. As for me, I’m building an everlasting Frame: The Lover Government.

The worker gives me his eight coined pentacle humams and the king hands me his wand. I join cups, wands, coins, swords and notes in a joyful march to the A top.

21 Line Poem 43

Others seem so much better

Next to you, humble letter

THE is so tall, proud and sure

You are small and demure

Be has big, buxom bubbles

You are peaceful in your troubles

C is open and embracing

You are grounded and effacing

D’s a half moon well preferred

You prefer to be deferred

E is striking, elegant

You retire, diffident

F’s top heavy, leans ahead

You keep lowly, down instead

G’s a lofty, spiraling universe

You contribute to her spinning verse

Why did Love put you first

When the others were no worse

When she planned the letter set

She took the best she could get

To start off her alphabet


Love 44

Step 44

Two of Sound


Mine and Line

Queen of Wands and Knight of Swords

B Line

Lover Line

Story 44

I built an A frame house so she would come. Joy came and we were now preparing for the coming of the Lover. Our house project was taking on a sense of urgency. I heard galloping hooves and saw the knight of swords rushing to rescue a damsel queen in distress.

“There’s nothing so sad as a womam forced our of her queendom into the kingdom of patriarchy. Token and broken matriarchs are used to legitimize the patri-fakery system by being chimney sweepers for the king’s patri-dome. Femen keep womem outside the pate gates. Queens of politics and porn sell their bodies to wimps pimping for Pa Patrix. Black cat whores and phallus staffs in the hands of queens on sun lion thrones are severed from their selves to serve gods warring on the earth.”

Wasn’t I the knight rescuing my inner damsel in distress? Wasn’t I cutting through my down-pat defenses of ignorance, arrogance, incompetence and other lying vice-grips? I was getting a glimpse of the father of lies behind the iron curtain of cult culture conditioning, a swarm of lies buzzing around my head like flies.

Lords of flies said earth didn’t matter because father was in heaven and earth was not our lover because the false God was love. A pretty petty excuse to rape the earth.

Patriarchy was a cult of death addicted to denial, creating the disease to sell the cure of an after life for the price of this life. What a killjoy and spoilsport. I had to let the dead bury the dead and follow the sound of my own joyous life.

Despite what deadmen said from both sides of the grave, this life was the ever-present body of the Lover Lovus. The Lover was my window-mirror and echo chamber, rushing toward me like a saving grace, blasting open my clogged lines and rewiring my corroded circuits. It wasn’t enough to trash patriarchy; it was going to crash anyway. Love needed to fill the vacuum or a worse devil would be sucked in.

Love was the power to make pats ex-pats. Saving the world from male madness was a rush job that had to be done right. Every second counted because every hair was numbered. A world in mortal danger slumbered. We were driving under the influence of patriholics. It was up to me to recover sobriety.

Stream of Consciousness Poem 44

The sound of consciousness is like the buzzing of bees; the pounding on the shores of the cosmic seas. I see your words leading me like a bee Line path; I hear your whispers through the lover’s lath. The wave of sound carries me up the musical scale; the seven strings of your love’s muse serves me without fail. The voice of my conscience is louder than thunder; the choice of consciousness is a seventh wonder. A bee Line is straight but waves like a violin string; so this column of consciousness has a viable ring. My sorrows and joys are a stringing vibration from stinging sensation to singing elation. My bee Line to you is not perfectly straight but its meandering gait is certainly great. The plucking of my string is your true Love’s ring; Joy’s the thing my sad sorrows bring. I’ll a worker be and you be my queen; we will make music such as the world has not seen. What bee would not buzz with her honey between her legs; oh, say can you see the cause of the wet runny eggs? I’ll drone on for you if you prefer; you can play him and I’ll play her. The game of be Mine is perfectly fine but the game of bee Line is past confine. Be Mine, money, is that the businessmen say; bee Line, honey, is what the busy bees play. Mine, Mine, Mine, digs you deep in the mind; Line, Line, Line, pulls you steep up the vine. Column number seven is sure the quickest way to heaven; my lucky, dicey suit is come seven, come eleven. All along the Line, the bees travel and roam; they don’t go off the path til they find the queen home. Narrow is the way and straight is the path; not too straight or you’ll miss that last hurrah laugh. Be flexible and wander a bit; for some things you shouldn’t give a whit. Along the way I’ll smell a few roses; like a bee I’ll suck a few posies; to be free, I will have struck a few poses; to be me and with thee, I will cross the desert with Moses.