Monday, April 20, 2020
A Traveling Song for the Lonely
At last one understands the terms and conditions of their ontological paralysis, their crippled epistemology and the corresponding emphasis on photographs, fucking and bread. Beautiful frail clouds dissemble in the faraway sky and float east towards the sea as if borne on a river. It is not forbidden to cry to violets and bluets "oh rescue me please!" Prayer is a traveling song for the lonely who by definition must advertise their loneliness. Shall we go together, shall we come together, my dear shall we end together? I feed the horses, sometimes I feed the chickens and pigs, and one way or the other I feed - with Chrisoula - our children. Poem by poem, sentence by sentence, interior plastic leis by which the Lord consents to be obscured are slowly cleared away. Hail Darwinian breezes! Begone Freudian myths! Yes, the autonomy of the living ends in our mouths but mouths too are functions of living. Listen to you singing about honey bees and lavender, reminding me that even seducers have to sometimes swoon. Look at me in late February discussing what to plant in the garden come Spring: dragon beans and pie pumpkins and kookaburra spinach. It's like beyond the mechanical body there is another body, a body of light, and beyond that body a fire, a luminous orange blossom endlessly producing itself for no observer but occasionally itself. Pistils neither empty nor full, stamens neither lost nor found. Under my tongue, roseate folds soften like an origami swan blissfully returning to its Boston origins. Oh beautiful Cailleach, oh Mother of Christ, for this I entered the forest. Swallow me so in darkness I might taste again the light.
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