Chrisoula asks me to empty traps in the basement which are filling again, and a sorrow begins again for which there is no solace, only resignation and service, the world the way the world can be. The thing with Jesus this time around is his insistence I'm not a bad man which kinda fucks up the long con I'm running on myself but hey, saviors gotta save. I fall to my knees at three a.m. and call my sigh a prayer. There were a lot of losses over the years, including two dogs, a horse, and half a dozen bipeds. There was a lot of pain when I was little, when I couldn't stop what was happening from happening, and the ones doing the hurting were supposed to be the healers. I don't like it either! Oh Cape Cod, why are you so happy when I visit? I have these dead and dying cousins, I have these uncles sawing fiddle in Purgatory, and I have a dead father living in me the way you do when forgiveness and a better way abounds just a little out of reach. Find a therapist who isn't scared is harder than it sounds. Maybe stories we could tell really are just stories? Does it have to be Hansel and Gretel all the way down? I have this image of you on the other side of a table with coffee smiling at me. Something happens praying the rosary and I like it, I like it a lot. Knots I can't untangle suddenly revealed as bows! Om shanti shanti shanti, my Lord, om shanti shanti amen. We are in the middle of a vast cosmic blossom, you and I. Insert happy face emoji. I mean, really: how happy I am in my little cave, roots and a little rainwater, the God of my childhood visiting daily, bringing bread and a bouquet.
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