Friday, June 12, 2020

Mysterious, Implied, Et Cetera

You see we are made of witnesses, one after the other speaking quietly its truth. Night fell, a sliver of moon skipped over the tree line, and spring exhaled all at once. A dampness one could trail their finger over, a saltiness that was neither forbidden nor unwelcome. Around five a.m. birds begin, the specifically blue light of dawn arrayed on windows facing east begins. My prayer, as such, is a kind of drifting, my intentions ripples in a pool whose existence remains mysterious, implied, et cetera. The inclination to boast about spiritual accomplishment versus simply relaying what has been helpful in hopes it may function similarly elsewhere. Trucks cruise Main Street around midnight, the ones that on the back roads cast Bud Lite cans into darkness. May all men heal! May our suffering in general decrease! The dream gently shifts tenor now to make space for the one who does not sleep. It seems we are angling towards something - a kind of meeting, a kind of ritual - but perhaps this is simply how it feels to be embodied in such a narrowly sexual way. What fits, what doesn't quite fit, and what doesn't fit at all. One applies this then another frame over and over only to learn that they're not different at all but identical. I mean, this love is not mine, right? As this crumb, love, merely hints at a diviner loaf. 

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