Cards drawn: The Magician; The Six of Cups
Hour one the soft ruler of us, of us is free, at last |here in “the land without myth and the land of gander” | the wisdom of past lives, gone in an instant, a breath;
Hour two call me Crazy Blue | as I charge into the night | outside of us plus everyone else | uncertainty the greatest gift | elephants and emeralds stuck to my feet | on this night unusually cold;
Hour three excited for the next war | should be fun | “Coercive as coma, frail as bloom”;
Hour four the house of home | extinguished hearth | observance, repose, contrition, morose | illuminated steps guide us to the instruction manuals painted in the sky | obvious only to you | which is why I need you | (I need you);
Hour five all the cards in the window moving | all activity stems from stillness | from the passive understanding | of the way you block me/lock me up within myself | powerless among the four elements given to us humans as tools to touch the world | and thrive;
Hour six, defunct;
Hour seven, deprived;
Hour eight the house of loss? | “‘beauty ever-young which has survived four babies’”;
Hour nine a watery sensibility, a ruling sensibility | not quite the same as being comfortable in charge | in the realm of what he can do with his objects | he has all the same objects | emotion, presentation—comfortable with the embodiment of each | led by his sphinxes in accordance to the currents which we | cannot see [/never see];
Hour ten | ask me anything as my senses turn on;
Hour eleven in my car the stench of sand lingers | “pretty soon…all the old will be dead” | air lingers water lingers | there’s a solidity to you at odds with my nature, those would be natures of Mercury, of Gemini | I fiddle away at rock and concrete searching | for trace elements of you in its veins;
Hour twelve the house of loss | sleep the sleep of angels, my love, flying through the sky asleep.
Cards:
Last week my partner did an extensive tarot drawing for me and I turned it into a collage-y poem.
Now, I have no idea what the hell was going on with it. But she has a gift, I think. I don’t think much but I do think that. The spread she did was one she invented. She said the most significant pulls were The Magician and the Six of Cups. I didn’t know what to make of it and I still don’t. I read about those cards and a bit about astrology and I wrote this poem. (Regardless, it was an incredibly powerful experience.)
Z.H. Gill was born in Los Angeles, lives in Los Angeles, and will likely die in Los Angeles.