So meticulous: A little girl, grown up amongst
Spiritists. Grown up, now.
Setting up the curtins of a living room
To block out light: black curtins.
To remove sensory interuptions, also a cleared floor:
Table, chairs, bookshelf, wall photos of family, ornamental Chinese woman
Swept, dusted: What now? She brings in candels, incense, a crystal ball
The stone (unmentionable, here) is lied in the center of the room
With a black cloth to cover it, for now
Have you ever wondered how spirits know which direction
To fly in? How they travel somewhere when someone calls
Them, to fly, could be anywhere in astral, a millon or billion miles away
How they are able to arrive so fast, never get lost?
The spirits are meticulous, too: there more sensory then
We are. Do not underestimate them. Ask, then:
Why do they come?
Because there fates are interlinked to the living, and so
We channel them, we fly to astral
We project ourself, they project back also
There more eager to find a willing body to inhabit, a temple
Then all of mankind is to worship in a temple, manmade or
I remember my aunt, she was sometimes called the purple lady
Or a mystical cross between a witch and a word I cant repeat here,
I respect her to much.
She was a spiritist her whole life, she did sences for a living read palms
Tarots, visions, visitations
She would set up her living room to do sences
The people, sometimes alone or couples, would come
And she would use her powers: sparingly, for few were ready
For the spiritual forces she unleashed, many left screaming running
From her home,
A wallet, a purse left on the ground, it contained her payment, and then some
And though she would have given them back,
Most never returned, or were heard from again
The living room ready, I sit in lotus (not easy for me, I’m a large woman, in body
And heart, you see) I begin to meditate, the first rush of a spirit whoosing past
My body, wanting to be let in. The room soon fills, I look I see smoke
I see swarms of spirits swooping around the room, chasing tails like a dog
Might, but these are spirits, there not here for games
I call to a bright one, to come near to me, tell me its name.
“I am Zeemo, I am two thousand years old”---”Go away, you are to young for me”
I call to another, I am looking for a spirit with experience
“You, how old are you” he flys up, he’s purple and his body looks like jello
He tells me about a time when the romens were in battle,
Upon a hill, fighting a enemy wos name I cant remember
They were about to loose, the course of history would have been different
So he blew a gush of wind, and knocked the flanks of soldiers over like
Dandelion seeds in the breeze.
So the Romans won the battle, he was worshiped by the men there
Who were very inviting of bodily intrusion
That is another story, but Azareal became my guide for a short time,
Thereafter, and after I heard all the stories about the old days of Roman warfare,
I got bored and, meticulous channeler that I am, I ejected him
And set up another sence, this time I was in no hurry to call out each spirit
By itself; I let them fight amongst themselves, the ones who want an audience with me the most
Will get it, probably.