Vultures of Red October
The Ritual of the Phoenix is here. Trump has taken no prisoners. He has been brutal with the press and they struggle to find their feet. Elizabeth Warren is a smear on the windshield at seventy-miles-an-hour. Trump’s chauffeur cleans her off with a squeegee after another thirty-six kilometers. Facebook is eating their own NPC, Mark Zuckerberg. The fabled grandson of Rockefeller is floundering without the comfort of his strings. The company cuts 800 conservative pages from the panic and shock. The orange lion struck brimstone on October 10th and the tech sector was ground zero. There is blood flowing in the valley of silicon as the Aslan roars from Washington D.C. The carnage will continue through the end of October as the fire calls forward the ritual of the phoenix.
In my hometown yesterday, on the ocean of air, turkey vultures came surfing in on the wind of a Red October. Four dozen clans circle in a spiral waiting for a bear to die. They sensed the time for this feeding from miles away. They have gathered for a family reunion. They have come to pick her body apart as packets of flesh are gulped and dissolved into the anti-verse. They are reapers with wings. They are here to carry us on. Only the lucky get plucked by their beaks. On October 24th the sun moves into the scorpion, eagle and phoenix. It is a time of regeneration and justice. The full moon illuminates all that’s been kept secret and dark. We can smell the decay of flesh and it taints the season of harvest. Be patient my friends. Respect the time that’s here. Lay yourself down and think about the parts of you that aren’t wholesome. Let them die today. End the echo. Trauma is a bell and we can stop in with a touch of our finger. Find the places that still vibrate from long ago. Tell them it’s time for the finale. If you feel sad, let the loss and attachment take you deeper. Our graves are sunk low for this reason. This is the only way the dark becomes illuminated.
From the book a Spell of Six Dragons:
She told me frankly, we were nothing special. My youth recalls the feeling as I paced through the streets at night. Gut-struck by a punch felt deep down in my intestine. My breath shattered and scattered into a million pieces. My back bends like a knee as it searches for any kind of rhythm. I am drowning in the surprise as my heart gasps for a raft. Now I am stranded on this sparse island. Vultures circle my hope lying fetal and panting. My destiny revealed in a feeble shadow. I am stretched across the dunes as the sun is slipping away again. And in the dusking quiet, I note the moon has my company. She is up there, deep in our mood together. She reflects a burning passion from a lover. Pools of tranquility looking down on me with sweet pity. She said to me that sometimes, the stars don’t twinkle. They pulse an S.O.S. but you don’t listen. Across the thick dark sky, in this cold, in these bones, I am my favorite hermit. I wrap my fish in the news of dead bodies. I spark my tinder from an old message in a bottle I had been saving for later. The hurt that burns me warms me now in a sandy bunker. I paint my forehead and cheeks with the black ashes of this fire. It burns as bright as my lonely heart is drumming. Through my nose, and out of my mouth, there was no need for resuscitation. I am alive and feasting on regret’s bloody throat. Healing is so overrated. Scars are noble trophies. Memories are ribbons. Yours to me is velvet blue with a giant gold medallion. You should be so proud of me.
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