At Wal-Mart in Oakland, purchased:
one Bic barbecue lighter (the long kind)
a vile of red children's glitter
three Catholic prayer candles (because they're pretty and cheap)
a bag of Red Vines (for chewing in consternation)
(though I'm not Catholic and the Lord's Prayer is the extent of my recital knowledge)
On the bedside table:
St. Jude - "most holy apostle"
Our Lady of Perpetual Help - "Mother of good counsel"
Powerful Hand - "Powerful Hand of God"
(Faith contained in Chinese-made glass cylinders bearing bar codes instead of stigmata.)
I remember your house and the stunning altars there. You spoke of affecting outcomes by harnessing energies and performing daily divinations. Hints of Hudu, Santeria and Christianity disintegrating into new forms like bones becoming ash where you are urn. At the time I smiled and agreed while you aimlessly fingered a trinket box containing your grandmother's incisors.
But somewhere along the line - a disconnect occurred my notes became illegible - caught between the fervor of your sacrament-coated tongue and Maurice Blanchot. Now I am in an Eastern Bay attempting to arrange a spatial meaning only to find
the accumulating of ether doesn't guarantee ignition.
It all just looks like clutter.
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