Lacy MacAuley


a home for my pen, projects, and passions

waterfall in porcelain teacup

Deep in my chest
an ashen snake is withering
blowing away in the wind
that I make when I whistle a love song

Deep in my throat
a star has been born
again and again so many times
thank the gods for the phoenix
that which rises and finds its voice
that which cannot be silenced

I am that immortal being
waiting with dripping joy
in a pool in that holy site
and I am the scorpion warrior
doing my duty
with a sword made of the sunset
gleaming with creation
that newness that first comes of the end.

Deny me both baffling incongruities
and with your next breath
try to say that the moon is made of cheese
Every mundane thing is magic
and mortals write small tunes
that are but a shadow of the real force

Do heart attacks happen to those who feel love
too much as a fire hose?


The gods and goddesses
can forget their divinity
stay trapped too long in humbler forms
but nothing can ever take from them
their true form
They may stay a long time
in the land that does not see them
but no amount of power or time
can keep them from themselves

There is charge here and the lightning
of holy words will awaken me.

Is it karma that is catching up to me?
Is it all of those heartbreaks that I spurred?
Have the last few years been catching me?

Not seeing is the worst anyone can do to you.
But what of seeing part, ascribing falsehood
pouring meaning like badly-mixed concrete
into a porcelain teacup?
What of the distortion lens?

My true self was here all the time
waiting like the goddess waits inside the waterfall
Eyes that twisted my form
washed out my color in a false liquid crystal glow
bent my smile like a spoon on an LSD afternoon
Translated my Testament into a Nicene Council poison
They did not see inside, though I opened the door.

Where is that pure soul who can see me?


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