Dark and sultry, the goddess finds me every morning. Her sinews draw upon her tight etherflesh an erotic dance of order and chaos, so that I do not know myself.
Every morning it is like this.
I rise because I must, not because she insists she is only there to insure I do not embarrass her. Vertigo is her name in the morning. Her names change as the Greater Sun marks the time in obedience, spinning out slowly on the world pole.
She leads me to the chamber of The Dragon, her true son, who swirls and steams and hisses like jealousy at me. She scolds him and I am glad. But he sees my cathartic eyes, and marks them for later. She beckons him to a cup and decrees her will to him. Without hesitation or protest, for it would be foolish, he spews forth the dark bile that will be life to me for the next few hours. But always I see in his eyes, in his rapacious eyes, the markings on a tally sheet too long for my purse.
“Never mind that,” she says in a voice I will never disobey, a voice that stirs my oedipal loins. “Drink.”
I drink.
I drink and the dragon’s milk electrifies my plodding soul. I become rigid as the arclights leap across my dreamscape, my day keeper. My mind, like a millstone, lurches and heaves, the gears synchronize and lock together.
Momentum builds.
The goddess smiles. Smiles her new name at me.
My jealous dragon brother slinks off, scheming.
I touch my finger to my temple, acknowledgment of the self within, and I relax, watching the sun climb, rung by rung, up the cerulean heavens, like the list of making conjuring in the goddess’ mind that she bequeaths to me.
I rise, clothed in light and armed with greed, to slay her foes.
Epiphany 