How to Work Tuesday in Hoodoo and Planetary Magick: Cut, Command, and Conquer Like a Rootworker
The day of fire, war, and unbreakable command. Here’s how to use Tuesday to dominate through ritual, rootwork, and fiery planetary big energy.
I Don’t Ask on Tuesdays: Walking in Fire with Mars, Camael, and Command
Not only do I write for beginners, I write for students of high magick. This post is for the more advanced student.
I don’t touch soft work on a Tuesday. I strike. I cut. I command. Tuesday is Mars Day—governed by fire, forged in blood, and ruled by planetary force that don’t blink when you say go. This ain’t the day for lighting candles with pretty prayers and soft voices. This is the day I go to war on my altar and burn through whatever’s been blocking my way.
If something’s been binding you, draining your strength, or dragging your name through the dirt—I light that red flame and call it out by name. Tuesday don’t wait on justice. It enforces it. When I walk with Mars, I’m not begging the universe to listen. I’m flipping spiritual tables and making the unseen world pay attention. Mars don’t move for whispers. It moves for warriors.
I’m an Aries—born under fire and born on a Tuesday—so this day hits my bones different. But you ain’t gotta be an Aries or Mars-born to grab hold of this power. That flame belongs to anybody bold enough to use it.
Mars answers to Archangel Camael, the enforcer of divine law. Its Intelligence, Graphiel, delivers the earthly blow. Together, they cut, purge, and strike fast.
And for those of ya’ll walking the line of modern conjure—I do, too—these are my go-tos when I’m on the path of righteous resolve. Camael. Graphiel. Red flame. Psalm 94. I don’t scatter energy—I align it like a loaded weapon.
I don’t ask on Tuesdays. I command.
And the flame obeys.
Feel that? That heat in your chest? Keep reading. This ain’t theory—it’s a battlefield manual.
When Mars Moves: The True Story of a Woman Who Let Tuesday Fight for Her
A woman came to me two years ago—let’s call her Marlene. Soft voice, but eyes like cracked glass. You could tell life had been rubbing her raw for a while. Her husband had walked out, left her with two kids and rent was due. He had moved in with what she called “that red-dressed heifer who don’t even wash her own damn drawers. Some hussy has been from his job.”
But she didn’t come to me crying over no man. That wasn’t what broke her. It was the pressure. The kind that don’t let you sleep, have you sitting on the side of the tub crying so your kids don’t see you. The kind that makes your hands shake when you’re doing the dishes, and wanting to throw them all against a wall. Her job was on the line. Her skin was breaking out in rashes, red and angry across her chest and arms. And every Tuesday—every damn Tuesday—she said she’d wake up angry. Clenched jaw. Heavy chest. Mood sour by dawn.
"I don’t know why I feel like this," she said, staring at the wall like it owed her something. "I wake up mad. I wake up ready to f*ck someone, anything up, and I ain’t got nobody to swing on."
That’s when I knew. Her body wasn’t sick—it was screaming. Mars was trying to move, and her altar was sitting cold. Rage without a ritual will wreck you. Power with nowhere to go will turn inward. That’s what was happening to her.
I didn’t give her comfort. I gave her clarity. I told her: You’re not broken. You’re backed up. Something in your life is begging to be cut loose, and Tuesday is the day to do it.
The first week, she said she still felt tight. But something shifted. She didn’t argue with her coworkers. She didn’t yell at her kids. She just… exhaled.
Week two, her eczema stopped flaring.
Week three, her supervisor—the one who kept “losing” her PTO requests and micromanaging her—got transferred to another department. No warning. Just gone.
Week four? Marlene called me at seven in the morning. Seven a.m. ya’ll, my brain doesn’t even clock in that early. But her voice was clear. Lighter. Said she slept for ten hours straight and woke up feeling like she’d swallowed the sun. We’ll hot damn girl! You betta get it!
Said she wasn’t angry anymore.
That’s Mars.
Not chaos. Not petty revenge. But a kind of divine enforcement. The type that clears the room without raising its voice. The kind that returns your peace like it never left.
Mars don’t play when you’ve had enough.
Mars shows up when you say “I’m done.”
And on a Tuesday? Mars don’t miss.
And the husband?
She paused and said, “You know what’s wild? He just got fired. Her too. Some HR scandal. Ain’t got nothing to do with me.”
That’s the beauty of real conjure. You don’t have to chase revenge. You just have to let the energies you rock with know you’ve been wrong and they will take care of the rest. You just have to claim your peace—and let fire handle the rest.
Mars don’t swing for drama. Mars swings for order.
And when you light that red flame with clean intent?
Tuesday does the cutting for you.
Pray Like Fire: Why Tuesday Rootwork Ain’t for the Timid
They tell you Tuesdays are just another day. They say you should wait until Sunday to gain spiritual clarity or reserve your rituals for Friday, when Venus is soft and sweet. They tell you that Mars is too dangerous, too unstable, too aggressive—too masculine to handle with care. They warn you not to work with force, as if spiritual fire needs your permission to move.
But those are the same people who stay stuck. The same ones who write petitions with passive language and wonder why nothing shifts. The same ones who whisper when they should roar.
Mars doesn’t wait for emotional readiness. Mars acts when you do. Tuesday is not about gentleness. I know, I’m an Aries. A March Aries. It is about righteous confrontation. It is the day you stop tolerating what drains you. It is the day you declare spiritual war on confusion, delay, disrespect, and disorder.
This is not chaotic energy. This is righteous enforcement. It is the moment where real rootworkers don’t light candles to “try”—they light them to strike.
They say you should pray pretty. I say you should pray like fire. On Tuesday, your words are not requests—they are commands. Mars does not respond to pussy footin’. It responds to certainty.
If you are waiting to be calm before you take action, Tuesday will pass you by. If you are afraid to cut what no longer belongs, what and who no longer serves your highest good. Tuesday will not carry your work. But if you are ready to speak with clarity, to confront without apology, and to move in power, Mars will not only listen—it will execute.
Real conjure does not beg. It declares. It seals. It breaks what needs breaking without flinching.
Tuesday is not for the timid. It is for the ones who’ve reached their limit—and are ready to strike back with fire.
You Are the Altar. You Are the Command
Rootwork done on a Tuesday does not linger. It does not ask twice. It moves with a force that’s fast, direct, and unapologetically final. Marlene’s results were powerful, but she wasn’t the only one. Another client came to me panicked over a sudden eviction notice. She had kids, nowhere to go, and only a few days left. We aligned her work to Tuesday’s fire. By that Friday, the building was sold and the new owner offered everyone new leases. No court. No drama. Just reversal.
That’s what Tuesday brings when you do it right—outcomes that don’t need to be explained, only acknowledged.
Mars work rarely shows up soft. It cuts what needs to be cut. It shifts things that people swore couldn’t move. And when that movement hits, you feel it. The weight lifts from your chest. The panic loosens its grip. The fog around your name clears. Your enemies quiet down, not because they changed, but because the path is no longer open to them.
You remember what you forgot: you are not the victim in the story. You are the altar. You are the command.
And once you stand in that truth?
You stop waiting on fire.
You become it.
Don’t just read it. Light your candle next Tuesday. Come back and tell me what happened. This work don’t miss.
🚪 If this post lit a fire in you, don’t just sit with it—walk in it.
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