A Jester in the Chapel

More rain. Coughing and tired, stomach the way it sometimes gets when I get too close to the old way of doing things. I'm not a monk, and I know that, but still. We are where we are - broadly understood - for a reason, possibly a good one.

Earlier, after walking, some words came, the ones I have been resisting for a year now, and of course you were implicated. But so what? Cold nights don't have to beg warm bodies and the muse is hardly specific. There are other ways, even if we are only just beginning to intuit them.

The corner chair bears me up and will so long as I ask it nicely. In my dreams, doves, and in the doves, light, and in the light, you. I mean You. See the difference?

Actually in my dream someone kept trying to get me to visit a psychic - to see the mystical mysterious prismatic and spiraling connections binding us all - and I insisted on simplicity, on just meeting it - call it God if you must - without drama. Tepid broth is the new sexy! A little ice on the maple dissolved readily beneath my thumb and so I will teach, or try to. The dog came after, wet and tired.

My New England yes means I remain cipherish, a jester in the chapel you would bury with your poetry and zeal! How many cherry blossoms have to fall between us, dearest of dear sisters? There are kisses and there is the Kiss and one needs to be clear which one is it is they're after (please read this sentence - I mean the part outside parenthesis - literally). The old author had it wrong, see - J. was wrestling with the idea of God, not God, and only after accepting that fact - thus bestowing upon that wangly argumentative egoic self forgiveness (which is only right seeing) - was J. at last given to see the perfection that abounds - within and without - independent of and contingent on - us all.