Nora and Torvald on the Mall of Dreams

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Preacherman, he say:

           And upon her forehead was a name written,  
           Mystery, Babylon the Great, the
           Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth.

Pause, hold it a few beats,
build him up a righteous rage:

           And I saw the woman drunken with the
           blood of the saints, and with the blood of the
           martyrs of Jesus: and when I saw her,
           I wondered with great admiration.

Don’t know about Preacherman. Tongue’s
slick as his hair, and he likes the
taste of ladymeat.
That’s what they say.

Gonna work him up a lather, though,
he gets a load of this sister
call herself Silverhawk. Turns cards
down Pearl Street on weekends.
Burbies and Parlor
Marxies make a show over that real
old time religion, you know?
Mommy gonna
get her future told.
Maybe later score some
incense from Chopa?

So Silverhawk, she flip a card.

This is the Queen of Cups
pure force of Water
a mirror, reflecting hidden depths.

           When I was four
           we went to the Bottomless Pools at
           Lake Lure. I wondered
           if I fell in
           would God be able to find me on
           Judgment Day.

           I remember the blacks of those pools
           when you look at me.

Paradox and fluidity
she is the thing in others,
never the thing herself.

           I once had wings,
           dipped in the pools of Heaven.
           Now, here and broken,
           assailed by the

           chatter of leaves, the
           clatter of bees, the
           natter of thieves, where

           banshees
           wail amidst the jewels of Eden...

Consort to captains and dreambaggers,
she cannot touch the world of things.
She dies if she stands alone:

you are too much of the head,
who should be a starflyer.

           The first time I flew
           I was eight,
           my face pasted to the porthole,
           trying to see if I could find my house.
           I still do, when we fly to
           visit my mother,
           but it’s never where
           I think it should be.

Finally, the High Priestess:
fall from crowclad sky
oh daughter of rain,

for She is the Hand of Balance
weighing a length of diamond chain
against the rib
that is your birthright.

Just want to see the look on
Preacherman’s face, is all.