What It Was Like

When I was a horse

I was ridden without saddle or bridle
like a tongue
by the red headed goddesses.

With Clotho I worked my fingers

and the mist from my mouth
into web into thread
useful for the repair
of ripped open furniture, pillows, seams of jeans
though I was not much one for repair.

With Lachesis I asked myself and others:

What is the measure of a man?
and found so many different answers
and those who loop their portions into knots
to make it shorter.

With Atropos I cut and pricked

with kitchen scissors, which seemed subpar
for the hands of a goddess
but then again Im quite subpar myself
knobby kneed and fit for glue.

I could have said Shannon, Jessamyn, and Emily

redheads I love who said:
Its not so bad being a horse.
They said this when they approached me in my living room.
I tried to speak of college days,
but with their heads on fire
they only wanted to speak of fate.

Youd think I understand fate better now

having been ridden near to death
but even then, with sweaty flanks
and wild eyes,
I could not truly understand
the pressure of holy knees in my ribs
or sugar cubes at my mouth.
They left their mark; though
I have not confirmed it with equestrians,
I think a horse remembers
every rider.

I tried to explain my exhaustion and to ask for clarification about our work
from Shannon, from Jessamyn, from Emily
after a day and a night of riding riding riding
when we were taking a moments rest
in my living room for a debrief I hoped
but they were too busy being goddesses to answer
else they were not there.

Atropos is still around, I know.

Today, walking the art district downtown
on the enticing red brick sidewalk
(so lovely, I must look down)
that criss-crosses a circular park
A zero, an egg, the disc of the moon when it is red and low
with a roundabout being oddly negotiated
by unobservant drivers
(unobservant is a redundant adjective
when applied to almost anybody,
else why are not all people artists?
else why are not all people insane?).

I saw a crows black leg and foot

talons curled as if perching, leg ending in a small tuft of feathers, where
Atropos snuck beneath this bird
as it perched in the parks tree
and cut

the leg falling to the sidewalk,

and a one legged bird flying off
I gave thanks that she was not riding me
when it came time to make that cut.

Then there were the daimonia

waiting for their turn to ride.
Permit me to give a partial list.
I can only explain so much.

the hawkjudgmental
 the ratdied inside Buddha
the ibisesnever travelled alone, always talking
the cockroachthe Lord of the Flies is misunderstood, do not burn me for telling the
truth of
that
the dogthe doppelgnger of my dog that appears when I switch off the fuse box on
moonless nights.
the monkeyslawyer minions sent to bafflemany things like like people but are not.
the frogchanges gender, as do I sometimes, in my mind. I grow a beard to anchor me.
the black diminutive drag queenemerges from underneath my sink, a Fury of
punishment for every way in which I have failed to do right by a
Lover.
the snakesometimes swallowing your own tail/tale means infinity, sometimes

absurdity.
the antsalways working but never finished, the sign of the descent of the gods of
industry and futility. They are brothers and they often ride
together.

Also note these creatures of hybridity.

I too am not one thing or the other;
we are all Chalcedonian monsters
whether we know it or not.

Mermaid
Manticore
Satyr
Unicorn
Minotaur

I lure, I flee, I rut, I am alone, I roar and devour in my captivity, the shameful son.

You may call the office for a complete list.

Many times I yelled at the clamoring bookshelves

yelled for them to stop
stop being absurd
stop being pointed.
It rarely matters if I open a book again
regardless of how long ago I read it.
They still demanded that I listen, remember, think it through.

I dont need to open old books. They open me. Scalpels.

I know why one might burn books,
but I am not a murderer.

Team Skotos either defended me or attacked me

depending on my attitude toward my work.
I grew skilled in interpreting
the marks of the gods displeasure.

Considering all this, when I tried to explain it to him

to the one I desperately wanted to understand
it meant my whole life for him to understand

after being angrily accused of incoherence

I did the only thing left to me
I didnt want to have to resort to such desperate acts
but I did

I climbed a top my writing desk,

scattering my drawings of clowns
stories of sentient tapeworms and their priestly retinue
numerological interpretations of phone numbers and license plates
an add for a neighborhood grill that was speaking to me directly about my torture
Can you hear that sizzle?
the tarot card that always rose to the top: the eight of circles
(Thomas, Madame Sosotris, does know, you should have listened
I do not fear death by water. When you show me fear in the palm of your
hand I blow it away. It is nothing.)

There on top of my tower, my plain of Shienar

I read Howl to him.
Surely now he would understand.

When he did not

I played my last card.
despite that I am not a woman
despite that my hair is black
I did what Emily did in college
that helped me understand
I recited Lady Lazarus and at the end
I screamed the last lines
I EAT MEN LIKE AIR
I climbed down
and their was no one there.

Thats what it was like.

I did it for you.
I hope you understand.