she sips a glass
of wine
and admits, agrees
she too, doesn’t want to be

on this prison planet
under these archons,
guided and insulated by sadistic angels,
both, in servitude to the demiurge

no escaping it, Them

even in Bucolia

she’s still plagued by the 24-hour news cycle,
contemplation that often veers off into nihilism,

and, by bouts of suicidal ideation
— but to go back around, back to another false birth in this Samsara, to start over? — no thanks //

perhaps crying in the wilderness, then.

where is that, exactly?
the mountains, buttes and canyons also betray us — those ancient Watchers, the petroglyphs warned us of
— and of shapeshifters cloaked in feathers, fur and scales ///

she knows she can’t save her Self, preserve her Pneuma and reunite with her Daimon,
solely with an Earth-based practice of resistance

and, so begins the invocation, the genesis of her mission,

she supposes the element of surprise may be compromised by Their so-called omniscience

but who knows – what They actually know

even gods have blindspots
even gods sleep and fuck — or mindlessly scroll and binge

we, Their creation, create Their content, after all

yes.

she will go to Them

traversing the liminal terrain

to find and kill Them in their confident repose in the Kenoma