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into python needs

Stomping on the ground and
wondering where the old gods have gone.
Disturbing the downstairs neighbors,
seeking focus in elevator gnosis,
humming Tuvan monk harmonics
into the spaces beneath your eyelids.

Disheveled face rumpled Red Bull trance.
We set ritual fires in aluminum trash cans,
sprinkle in some miracle dust and watch
the flames burn green.
And leap.

My pen is my wand.
It etches like a charm.
Pen sharp across your shoulders,
draw serpentine scars
like stretch marks over your belly
and across your arms.

Like metallic water fountain
divining rods,
we’ll seek a Level 40 trance
in the maternal and insulating chrome
of a bus, the city’s circulatory.
Urban shamans shaking around feathers
from dirty pigeons and upsetting the
greyfaced, daily business suit mundane.

Wrap a copper wire
thrice around a drug park tree.
Listening for the voices of hauntings
in the rusty creak of a playground swing.

I dreamt that you seduced me
into python needs*
with a couple of hair trimmings
and a cigarette flavored
like mustard seed.

You laid with an ear flush to the concrete
and tried to hear the earth’s tired rumblings.

*“into python needs” is a quote from “Anorexic” by Eavan Boland.