Monday, July 13, 2020

Mercy Unto Betrayers

Perhaps light. We pause to empty our shoes of dust, and I think of Jesus long ago, and the way that stories become us without our actively noticing.

Remove your shirt slowly then, that it may fall a thousand years as was ordained. She cries a little after midnight, a long conversation that goes nowhere but deeper into familiar anguish.

Dying grass and it's not even July. Sumac sprouts where two years ago a bear paused watching me watch him. If you're doing it, you're doing it right.

Note that the universe allows for abstraction - considerable abstraction, even betrayal, even mercy unto betrayers. We work a couple hours in hot sun trellising tomato plants in the garden, working out wordlessly the terms of our dissolution.

In the shadow of the kale, a toad.

Swallows decorate the sky.

McKenna envisions a way language may become sculptural, three-dimensional, so that what we say hovers in the air and we can circle it, examine it, correspond about it in the way we would a statue or a vivid piece of architecture in a new-to-us city. Dead arachnids.

We who, at a late juncture, contribute to the collective shaking off of the monkey. Midnight, beams of light. In your teeth, a rainbow, which you set gently near my shoulder, an offering.

Let love be love, and joy, joy, saith the Lord, who has nothing better to say in or through or with me presently.

Hearts break on Main Street. The Divine is multivalent and predisposed to loyalty but also, whatever you take seriously is not it. Oat and banana pancakes, chest pains, the mail, and this: this this.

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