Saturday, January 3, 2015
The Forest Otherwise
A whiskey hangover is better for the narrative, or it was anyway. Now I'm not so sure. We don't eat parrots, which pisses off the chickens. We met in Charlemont at the old country store and carried hot black coffees a couple of miles south to the old railroad station talking about what haunted us and the women we insisted play the role of haunts. What do you do with your hands? A spiritual practice must move us beyond spirituality into a clear and simple relationship with all that is. In other words (but probably not these) you are looking at it right now. Ancestral impulses, a hankering to get every sentence just so and overall amusement at how persistent sex can be. Don't gussy it up with God! I want to sleep with her the way I want to drink whiskey alone. I insist on fucking the way I insist on walking as far as possible when the moon is full. You haven't seen the forest otherwise. And who cares? Not the moon, not desire. Not the forest. Life chugs along regardless of my cheerfully confused wordiness. What's it like for you? I am so tired of being a love letter torn between envelopes, so tired of being a bell that thinks it's ringing itself. Oh Christ forgive me but I want one more time to learn again inside her the futility of kisses.