I meet Poe in Baltimore, conjure his ghost to walk with me through emergence on these the sacred cremation grounds of conjunction. Dear master of the great mystery, detective of misery, for I am at a loss, tell me friend, what is it I am hesitating to see?

Descending down the musky dim stairwell, hunched over, under the lowly late winter clouds, a ceiling over a magic carpet that smells of a century of toxic Sundays past, we trace the spongy fibers for a pattern.

I point where what once constituted a solid foundation set by calcination crumbled in remediation. He notes the breaking of the mold, a microbial invasion of total separation of past, and present, and future. I add the discernment of yours, and mine, and ours.

He gazes in amazement, slowly the probing shifts to the slate blue medallions of my soul. So thorough is my dissolution that he too cannot see anything, excepting the brilliant field of incarnation.

In confirmation, with mischievous smirk he lingers to lurk, the case is closed, but insists with raised brow offering an opening, how is it that I did it, wove such clarity and purity of heart and mind? I shift and make room, pull up the fringed edges, and off we go, I will show him the world.

It began in a land, of a caveman dug up and quelled by the flic of a bic amidst the rapturous demands for change that flew them east to the land of entrapment with the promise of a equine companion.

It began in a desert, wind blown sand and sun burnt land where total annihilation by trusted conquistadors sent me dehydrated and crawling to the river of lost souls to drink, and take my place up on the plateau.

It began in a forest, of pine and mortgage with a hidden heart I did my part and pushed the cart for seven long years along the Front Range plains, a loathsom, painful sojourn.

It began in a terrace, of hillside views that smelled of sewage as rotting entrails simmered and rapturous sores festered and swelled.

It began in a subtropical paradise, where land mines set off by tomb raiders initiated the liberation.

It began in a pandemic with masks synched tight, I dropped forty pounds of unclaimed baggage.

It began in a circle with a turbaned stock broker and initiation by a Jersey high priestess.

It began in a Creekside with a Gable House and strolls around the pond that told me I’ve already been here, I’ve already done this.

It began along the Underground Railroad when I followed the North Star to Maine.

It began in a gallied kitchen, in a cedar shala, on oxblood couches, in attic bedroom, on road trip sing-along, in hot spring waters.

It began on a Mountaintop Ashram with Santa Claus and a gift of 101 spotted dalmations for Valentine’s.

Until finally I learned to listen and landed here along the bay in the land of strong deeds, gentle words. Guided by book peddlers in Kansas City foretelling of business down east, further than my Portland plans, where the lobster turn to crab. I was directed to find a soulful white stead a local will hold the key.

I listened and spent Sunday with the Divine in spacious white light of muddy cacao, guided by Komainu friends and a message from goddess, for a victorious celebration of chiefs over miners.

I listened and took a gamble on the energy of money, initiating a new way of being. Witnessing the absurdity at what I choose to build, at what grandeur I demand, at the surprising contrasting nature that abounds.

I listened to Hello Kitty who tells me anything is possible when you have the audacity to ask for it and gives me a sleeve of colorful confirmation for haiku contemplation before I take leave.

I listened and went around the writers block to find nothing much to write home about, and rounded the corner to the pony express and successfully negotiated transportation of the guru to Chicago.

I listened four hours of four running to the promise land where blue skies of heaven sit gloriously on red rocks of earth. And grandmother reminds us children that it is our laughter that initiates our full incarnation in this tribal nation of conscious fleshy bodies, announcing our arrival from the otherworld- ha!

I listen in the round where I craft my next move, our laughter is muffled by the weight of priests and suppressed pride. And I can no longer stand the irritation of my womb wound, it must be known and said so loud and with conviction that the witch doctor is called to anoint and realign.

I listen to delays that abound as I’m weathered to the ground when the electric bird I am meant to board redirects me through motor city and so I arrive at a different port town in the dark bitter cold to continue the trek north. Where Rudolph and I lock eyes for a brief moment before going our separate ways.

I listen to the bang of the northern lights – a release of the final hold, a welcomed clearing revealing bright stars, glimmers of a vibrant future. I’m like a shooting star, I’ve come so far, I can’t go back to where I used to be.

I listen to my weary soul when Santa surprises me as I rise from the rocks at Bass Harbor. He points to tell me destiny lays just eight hours away across international waters. And Mrs. Clause joins us and conjures the fractals of the Atlantic and washes my worries away as the christmas bell tolls.

I listen to the whispers in the valley where hungry ghosts roam the corner lot and suddenly I am possessed by her distraught energy that he carries haphazardly no apology in sight. So I put on the chains and play the game and tell him hello. And receive in epileptic episodes a pregnancy announcement before a military occupation is attempted.

I listen to the townspeople deeming an exorcism necessary and I head eight miles in the snow both ways to Crommett’s where I get high on thick air and drop the despair in playful cartwheels on the edge of the Appalachian trail before heading back into town to roll with the fatties on the final walk through, a parting of ways with these nosey neighbors.

I listen in the silence of the lobster trap, retreating, and sit on the eastern prom looking north again for that fated star. Deja Vu of a dream time past, with people once known, who no longer feel like home. I know where I’m going but I must head west to head east to head west to head east. A most auspicious combination lock to my heart and destiny well kept.

I listen in consultation with American Big Foot, Canadian Grandfather Time, Italian St. Peter and his sidekick New Mexico Brie who all assure me this is the path, the indirect way, to make one’s own, and make it known, you too exist, you too have something to say, you’re well on your way, keep going.

I listen to changing heartbeat thumping notes and hesitantly drop into pequeña república dominicana and circle twice the radio tower before I meet the anarchist who tells me the future is in the morals of the children, and we easily agree on personal sovereignty. And Hope lingers faintly in the background, a most appropriate veiled appearance for a true cosmic mystic.

I listen that night as my face is drawn by a friend and delivered the next morning, and as if for the first time the beauty is revealed and I revel at the possibility, has it always been this way? And the raven haired witch confirms as we sip and nibble on afternoon tea before I head off to e in court with Queen Anne to charm and do what I do best and move on.

I listen to the rain wash my lungs of smoke-filled nights and remove my shoes and socks in delight as I traverse the tiles, the cobble, the dirt, and puddles alike to pray under the protection of Ganeshe’s umbrella so he may clear the path of new beginnings. And with the Aussies make offerings of sweet mothers milk to heal the bag lady and makeway for Japan where we will track the beats and join Beyoncé on the foray into country.

I listen at dawn and blow a kiss to Washington at the little red lighthouse and trade Blue Pearl for Black Pearl as I string my way south 200 miles on the Appalachian trail to Georgia where I’m caught off guard by Virginia waiting at the plot. And drop the smoking hitchhiker, with the pension for men late at night, down the manhole. And Carya calls from Texas and tells me to remove my shoes and asks me to sit while she tells me more about how the ancestors regard me.

Which sends me on my back, struck by grief and relief, and waves of possibility in reverence for this temporary life. From which I gingerly rise like the hills and roll back 40 miles to that hundred year row home of suffocated dreams, 1924 North Milton St, to pick you up.

I listen as I walk the Chesapeake to commune with the Visionaries and see the future from Telluride, an intergalactic assurance of prosperity, there is no turning back now.

I listen to ensure I’m cleared for takeoff into the vast expanse of sovereignty in solidarity but I drop into St. Lukes for a quick confession with the young priest, where he invites me for sacred ceremony to evoke the goddess in the circle of light to evoke the darkness.

I listen to crystalline bowls as I throttle into the great whiteness with pins in my ears and waves in my belly and rice on my eyes and beans to rest my head as rain and whales and birds and fairies carry me in delusional delight reigniting laughter.

I listen as Virginia writes, I’ve asked her for her blessing, to which she obliges, and slides me a note from Milarepa who assures me murderers get into heaven too. And for the second time I see that brilliant beauty again.

So tell me friend, now that I’ve taken you wonder by wonder, over, sideways and under, what is it you and your raven eye see?

I must conclude – Poe says as he eyes the legs of his aged drink and sinks into his well worn seat at his favorite bar – that’s quite a majestic horse you came in on. You no doubt my dear will go very far, for there is no limitation in the equation when you’ve packed your imagination. Protect that sacred intuition and trust only those most worthy, but have no fear my dear for you know as I know all that lives in the dark, boldly explore the unseen and allow that truthful light, the shadows are no shadows at all when you reclaim your birthright.