All the Dead Pigs

What else is prismatic slowly became the realization that everything was prismatic if you looked at it right. Hemlock trees in cold rain. Glass bottles full of polished quartz and amethyst. Fewer and fewer mornings writing while the coffee goes cold and more mornings holding the coffee in both hands, gazing into space as if a window somewhere were about to open. Crayon angels slip through the gaps, telling lies about the trinity. We who were keen once on psychedelics, for whom the world was malleable and only amenable to brief moments of clarity. She runs the shower and I picture her leaning, then play the games of memory: when did we last shower together? We gained a lot of control over temperature and speed through the years, which control is related to the assertion - not made enough in my opinion - that Buddhism is not the answer. One rolls through stormy tides of sleep, waking over and over to various stages of moonlight. Regret over all the dead pigs. Prayer as distraction, prayer as denial. Days pass before the stomach pain passes, a reminder that "eating out" - really any meal not originating in the garden - is no longer feasible. Slowing down where Montgomery Mountain crests in order to search the foggy fields for deer, that happiness. While something maternal awakens, rearranges the calendar, and orders all ships to sea. Oh this watercolor life, oh these soft pastels against which the awful guns of childhood were finally beaten to plowshares.