A High Gold Arc

The curriculum requires a willingness to be sensual which I've managed mostly through food and steadfast refusals to sleep in ways a body wants which - surprise surprise - is not enough. Swans appear off the highway outside Boston, moving us to lamentations, a sense that something somewhere has gone fatally wrong. One way or another one vocalizes and relationships - both intended and otherwise - began their gorgeous raveling. Lately I begin to understand my sexuality in terms of a vast but failed project to dissuade the Lord from loving me and wonder is it too late to wonder who I should go to for help. Some impossibilities appear as trails one can follow unto death, hence the need for partners who are willing and able to interrupt us, redirect us, et cetera. Late at night, after walking far beyond the village in order to star-gaze and partake of the solitude my living appears to depend on, I stand on the front porch and piss in a high gold arc east. I miss you Dan, wish all the comforts of the dharma upon you, and thank you profusely for your friendship in the difficult years of my early twenties. Warm beer, Hank Williams songs, barely manageable inclinations to topple off high places. For example, hastily jerking off in order not to be tormented later by certain images and their attendant forbidden narrative. I stumble into these sentences under the watchful eyes of a witch who is allowed to choose whether to save or eat me. In the choir loft one realizes that some messes cannot be cleaned because of a not-so-secret desire to make things even messier. Oh Christ, this body, oh Christ, this cross, oh Christ, these nails growing thin and translucent.