Poem: The Scapegoat’s Heart Along

The River Lethe

image credit: Irma Hudson

The winds fill my sail and

whisper to

my heart.

“Onward, warrior.

Down the River Lethe where your

reflection kept secret

ambitions to wear

the scapegoat’s

scars like stripes upon back or

wrists for the blood

curse they drink in

your honor.

No

You’re not allowed to pray.

Because their god is not

listening.

Not to you, at least.”

As if my Father would turn his eyes from me.

As if my Mother would not love me.

As if all of Heaven would not

smile upon my journey

through this Earth

Temple

while I accept

All That Is.

“Their shadows look

better

on a old-fashioned model.

A Jonah

A Joan

A Jesus

A Satanist

This has happened before.

It will happen

again.”

As the fallen

tree floats

and forks with

every thought

an Angel reaches into

their black bag as I

watch.

My youth scatters like

ash to the dark

waters of unconscious

fear.

While the Tower

of martyrdom

rumbles like Jericho

under my feet.

Mama awakens

within me

“Lion rise,”

with my

six swords aboard

this hopeful vessel

in this here

Underworld.

“Onward, sailor.

Gather your Soul

pearl and tinsel

toward deeper seas.

Reject the curses of

rotten roots

and seek sacred

soil

where the trees and the

stones

sing your song

back to you.

Where the lines

disappear and

you never have to explain

who you are.

Onward, child of the Most High.

You will sail to the

place where Heaven

is on Earth

because your heart says

it is so.

Your family

will know you.

You will speak with your

heart and they will

know you

by your

Love.”

And

in a moment

the Angel is gone.

The black waters

splash against the barge

and a chill echoes

my heart.

–Kaika ❤

Just Another Midnight Soul Retrieval

I left my soul down on the bottom rung of the social ladder, burned in wood, a troll’s toll.

The desert mirage no longer glitters like gold.

The palace is but a haunted mansion of putrescent corpses and tormented souls.

How long have I journeyed down this dark path?

All this upward motion led to downward spirals for backward people running from their own shadows.

The premise of our religion is the reason for proposed extinction. Is there not a human alive who doesn’t believe we don’t all deserve to die?

And every rung thereafter reaffirmed self-loathing for the delusion of perfection, for false security, for the American nightmare.

Even as I rejected promises of fame and fortune, for the price of my soul, I chose to climb.

“Little child, striving for the top bunk, you were never an angel, and that’s okay.”

To hell with the ladder. This false ascension has exhausted me.

Dismantle the mechanisms that would motivate me toward that zombie wasteland.

Allow the pain body to step into the light and, dammit, find the strength to look it in the eye.

And breathe….

Keep breathing….

“Little child, don’t you know that love cannot be earned?

You’ve lost your religion, but you still bear the scars on your hands from when they nailed you to the cross.

If they don’t love you now, they will never truly love you, and that’s okay.

It’s okay even when it’s not.”

I found my soul where I left it, on my bedroom floor, where there was

once a wooden ladder.

In the 2nd grade, the night I considered

the question, “what do you want to be when you grow up?”

I don’t “want to be,” I am.

I am.

This is good

enough for me.

–Kaika ❤

Masculine Power, Dancing Polarities, and Jedi Temple Ghosts

This image belongs to Disney. (duh)

I’m beginning to wield masculine power in healthy ways. I’m learning to be patient when I’m angry, confident when I’m afraid.

Easy to fake, not easy to become.

A father to my inner daughter. A brother to my wife.

The light may flood the shifting dark, the darkness fall upon light.

An expansive Love, the edge of my blade, a fierce Rage, its other.

The trick is to stay balanced.

The secret is to dance.

Beware.

The uninitiated find themselves on deadly tightropes.

The shadow lingers like chamber smoke, inhaling poison and filling the spirit with darkness.

Don’t rush to the dark side upon childish passions.

Take the time to train the mind, to expand the heart, and learn to see both good and bad in everyone.

Along the Middle Path, the Grey Padawan is filled with purpose.

The Resurrection of Spring <3

Photo Credit: PDX Monthly

The mind melts with tea and honey, reorganized like the sentience of my vacuum cleaner.

The world shifts like moving pictures, forking paths around the garden.

I’ve never been here before.

I used to have a relationship with the public, but that’s all changed. I pulled away because I was doing it for all the wrong reasons. I used it to cope and abused it as a medicine. I took power from the people who looked up to me.

I realized that the purpose of spiritual ego was to hide behind a mask, to hide the fact that I felt powerless in a dangerous world. I went looking for my power, the kind that comes from within.

From above to below, in all directions. I’ve only just begun my journey.

I’m sorry for the person I’ve been.

First I went to outer/inner space to find the parts of me I left behind when I allowed myself to become what I came.

I set foot on the Earth for the first time in thirty years, and I was filled with rage at what I saw.

I bore witness to the atrocities committed by the ruling class and I got lost in what I thought of as my personal rebellion. My inner revolution.

I saw darkness and light. I bathed in Fire and Water. I went to the Queen and the King and claimed my inheritance.

Now, I am a child again, learning the difference between milk and glue.

What I’m trying to say is that I’m back. I’m going to share my spiritual journey here. I will be graceful with you, World, and I pray you are graceful with me.

Back in the MySpace days, I called myself “Your Local Christian Heretic.” Well, I’m not a Christian anymore, but I’m sure as hell still a heretic. I’m thinking “Earth Temple Witch.”

Yeah, I’m a Mama’s boy.

Come back if you can.

Aloha ❤

Kaika (ky-kuh)

he / they

Poem: Awake at 4 AM

I am awake at 4 am despite exhaustion in my bones. The mattress springs have rusted from the tears I cannot cry.

I am awake at 4 am because my body craves a poem, a witness to the mourning in my soul. A quiet death, invisible butterfly.

I am awake at 4 am as white supremacy digs its nine-inch heels into my flesh, insisting its innocence while demanding absolution.

I am awakened by the sight of the seemingly endless distance between shades of skin and the realities we live in, miles I cannot close on my own.

When cognitive dissonance tastes like wine, drunk, we await our savior while entertaining fantasies of Utopia and vomit our medicine.

Not me. I am alone on this bridge. I built it, but they didn’t come. Somewhere a child understands they are not anymore.

I am awake at 5:30.

I am awake at 6 am.

I am awake, here gather all my strength.

The Lion roars at dawn.

Portland at Sunrise. Photo credit: Ritza Garzia

Forgiveness and Release

To anyone and everyone I have ever hurt before:

I’m sorry. Forgive me. Thank you. I love you.

To anyone and everyone who has ever hurt me:

I’m sorry. Forgive me. Thank you. I love you.

I’m ready to be at peace in my heart and soul, with which I wrap my gifts and offerings to the highest good.

I pray for inner peace and guidance.

Blessings to all.

Good night.

Kaika ❤

Poem: The Crossroad of Destiny and Fate

Suspended belief, like unsettled dust in dark corners of mind, tempt me to breathe. The pain subsides as I dare to hope the worst has passed.

I remember my bloody knees and innocent heart between my teeth as I whispered prayers with hands bound and eyes shut tight.

Decades have passed and still the ink stains my skin with tell-tale sigils seared, while I hope someone, somewhere might know what they mean.

As I count my scars and most trusted allies, placing tokens of loyalty in deep pockets, I wonder who will sing the dirges of Winter this year.

Here I grip my weapon, a beloved heirloom passed down the lineages of genocide and the shadows of power, blessed by the Bishop Prince.

Dare I trust the turning tide? If the darkness turns light, might I forget how to fight?

Hunger grips my bones while the winds whip my soul. I have held my mind steady like a ghost ship under Huracan. I fear I have survived, but why?

You have broken the curse.

Have I?

I peer down the crossroads under Priestess’ Moonlight, the tracks of my shadow, donkey hooves and cum stains on the sacred red dirt.

Prophet’s poetry manifests like the warmth of my breath.

Dear God,

What is the meaning of this?

I continue along my path with this song in my heart, like a needle in the night, I remember.

I remember.

Mi Abuelo Muerto

25 grams of melatonin, three nonfiction chapters, a bowl of chicken soup, and four hours of tossing. Not much has changed since the second grade…

Too tired to sleep, I require a deep dive, bobbing for ghosts and ancestral hosts of these haunted homes…

Past lives and nightmares, if I’d learned this, then why here, the creak of the floorboard, awakening shadows…

Familiar tune in my glass, power, privilege, and caste, Abuelo, I ask, why?? “Mijo, it is meaningless….”

Unravel the lies, like American pie, white picket gallows, profit, property, I don’t want to be the king of hell…

“Walk away while you can, Mijo. You want me to make it rhyme? Why? Okay, I will try, when you die, you can fly, how am I doing? I am not a poet.”

That was perfect.

“In your heart you know what is important and what is bullshit. In your heart you know who you are. Te amo.”