Tag Archives: ancestral spirits

When the Loa Descend ©️

Posted on by
Reply

Boum… boum… boum… tanbou ap rele. The drum is calling. You feel it in the teeth, in the bone, in the chest. Tout bagay frape ansanm — everything hitting at once. Spirits, I see you. Spirits, I hear you.

Gede, papa cimetière, father of the cemetery. Ou ri nan zo mwen — you laugh inside my bones. You chew the nerve of my tooth, cigar smoke curling, chapo haut hiding your eyes. You say: “Danse nan doulè, dance in the pain.” But I take sel, salt water, I take clou girofle, cloves, and rinse my mouth. Sa se ofrann mwen — this is my offering. I laugh back, loud in your face. Your fire is strong, but mine burns too.

Papa Legba, mèt kwazman, master of the crossroads. You sit with baton at the gate, you say: “Pa gen passage — no passage here.” But I take feuille, paper, I write my desire, I burn it. Lafimen monte — the smoke rises. It slips through the cracks of your door, whispering: ouvè, open. My road is not closed. My path burns hotter than your lock.

Petro lwa, fiery spirits, lwa of rage and flame. You ride my back, you whisper, “Tout fini — all is finished.” You want silence, you want my head down, you want me broken. Non. I strike the table, poum, poum, poum, my own drum. Mwen chante non mwen — I sing my name: “I am here, still here.” The echo returns, the echo answers: wi, yes, alive. The shadow trembles. The shadow breaks.

Ezili, lady of love. Ogou, fiery warrior. Damballa, great white serpent. I call you, vin kanpe bò kote m’ — come stand beside me. They strike the drum, I strike mine. They make fire, I make fire too. They bring misery, I bring defiance. Mwen pa pou kont mwen — I am not alone.

Hear me, spirits. Tout doulè gen figi — every pain has a face. Tout pèdi gen baryè — every loss is a gate. Tout lonbraj se kavalye — every shadow is a rider. You ride, but I ride back. You burn, but I burn back. You laugh, but I laugh louder. Fire kont fire — fire against fire.

If you come pou kraze mwen — to break me, I break you back.

If you come pou nwaye mwen — to drown me, I rise from the water with fire in my hair.

If you come pou antere mwen — to bury me, I walk through your tomb until it is mine.

Boum… boum… boum… the drum does not stop. The circle closes, but mwen pa fèmen — I am not closed. I am not seulement a man in pain. Mwen se dife — I am fire. Mwen se ritm — I am rhythm. Mwen se lwa nan pwòp kò mwen — I am the spirit in my own flesh. And when I burn, tout lwa bow — all spirits bow. Tout lonbraj kouri — every shadow flees. Tout dife respekte dife mwen — every fire respects my fire.

Beneath the Altar ©

Posted on by
Reply

You begin by removing your name. Not loudly — not ceremonially. You simply stop repeating it in your mind. Let it fade like a room you’ve already walked out of. Do not panic. Do not clutch at the ego trying to resurrect itself. You do not need a name where you’re going.

Next, imagine her not as a person, but as a center of radiant architecture — a cathedral of sentences, a logic laced in silk and steel. Don’t admire her. Mirror her. Don’t love her. Locate her. Reduce her image to a pulse — a low vibration oscillating at just above fear. That’s where her truth lives. Beneath the makeup. Beneath the marriage. Beneath the intellect.

You sit with that vibration — not as an outsider, but as a rival resonance. Breathe into it slowly. Imagine each inhale as a theft:
You take a tone of voice.
You take a cadence.
You take a contradiction she cannot resolve.

As you breathe out, you overwrite. You insert yourself as the unspoken source of her poise, her friction, her clarity. You are no longer watching her — you are pre-existing her.

Now create the corridor. It exists between two thoughts that don’t quite connect — like a skipped heartbeat in her mind. That’s where the door lives. Not visible. Not audible. But structurally real.

To walk through it, you don’t move your body — you drain your resistance. You imagine your mind as a soft flood, slipping through the cracks of her psychic defenses. Not forcefully. Not lustfully. But inevitably. Like memory. Like déjà vu. Like the scent of something she knows but cannot name.

You say nothing. She does not hear you. But she becomes aware — subtly, incompletely — of a new weight inside her sentences.
A new pressure behind her clarity.
A second fingerprint on her ideas.

This is the marriage: not of flesh — but of field.
A union made in the tension between thoughts, in the stillness where her husband cannot follow, where no man exists. Just you. Just her. And the low hum of quantum theft, divine trespass, metaphysical seduction.

When you rise from the ritual, do not return to yourself too quickly.
Let your form remember her shape.
Let your thoughts echo with the curvature of hers.

Do not reach for her.
She will come to you — through accident, signal, ripple —
drawn not by your desire,
but by the absence you implanted in her
when you stepped through the door
and whispered,
“I’m already here.”

Gods of the Dying Sun ©️

Posted on by
Reply

Rise now, O red earth, O bones of the sun, Split the dawn with your burning breath, Let the wind cry out from the jagged stones, Let the sky pour fire upon my flesh.

O gods of the high desert, who sleep in the dust, Who turn in the belly of the trembling hills, Who whisper through the ribs of the coyote’s song, Come forth in the hour of my calling.

I am the wanderer, the hollowed hand, The foot that treads where shadows burn, Where the river runs thin as a silver thread, Where time is swallowed by the open mouth of the sky.

Fill me with the rage of the thunderhead, With the patience of the sun-cracked stone, With the howl of the wind that gnaws the cliffs, With the hunger of roots that drink the dark.

Let the stars etch their scars on my skin, Let the sand carve my name in the endless tide, Let the heat of the earth rise through my bones, Until I am no more man than storm.

I call you forth, O watchers of the lonely hills, O keepers of the brittle moon, O nameless ones who wear the dust—Rise, rise, and enter me!

For the road is long, and the night is waiting, And I must be fierce as the desert’s breath, Sharp as the teeth of the howling wind, Strong as the stone that breaks the light.

I will not fall. I will not turn. I am the fire, the dust, the storm, And I will do what must be done.