The rapture as a structure of delay, perfectly designed by that which cannot face its demise. Organ meats, chicken feet. When we rise after prayer, we are neither lighter nor light, and yet happiness in its way abounds. Gimme!
Washing kale and collard greens, slicing the stems away, bagging them to freeze. Think of winter, think of your hunger, think of the salt mines in certain fictional narratives. Nobody home, nobody not-home either.
Old Irish songs about traveling that my son neatly folds into his sunny 70s rock ballad disposition. Lights like candy corns we loop around beams in the hay loft.
Turn to me once, turn to me twice and what do I become but a thinning version of a dream you can't quite remember having. And begin.
Spider webs float in warm drafts circulating through the basement. Ham steaks, ground beef, pork roasts, chicken. Would "amen" have taken us to a different sense of over?
Giving away my books yet keeping all the book ends, these remnants of a childhood in which the true savior was language bound in the reconstituted flesh of trees.
And what ends, ends, and what does not end goes on, hinting at even more encompassing states.
One longs for just five minutes alone with Heinz von Foerster, one steps out from the invisibility spell laid upon them long ago, one finds that their voice is no longer recognizable in their throat.
A dream of ruined Christmas tree ornaments, my feet bleeding, my heart a dove fluttering just out of reach of Hank Williams singing "My Son Calls Another Man Daddy."
It's this, it's that, it's everything, man.