Floating in Imaginal Space

Imagine we are designed by and for love! Sunlight on the icy hills near noon, the world dissembling in diamantine light. Joy is when the wind lifts you high above the river into the Mother, who is galactic, kosmic and godless. This this.

We come around to truth by asking questions and listening to the answers and allowing a subsequent necessary quiet to inform additional interrogatories. Suddenly all these divorces, all of us in our fifties going to tag sales and diners, moths lighting candles in the museum of our skulls, searching for the file in which love letters are stored. Fries with gravy at midnight. What can one do with their brokenness but deny it?

I was in my late twenties when I realized there were bird-shaped holes in my chest and the world - whatever it was - contained neither mysteries nor secrets. Idle claims about the Lord which distract us from the intriguing ongoing relevance of Freud. The kids tease me about the diamonds, i.e., Dad's got another rock to obsess over, which I try to explain is about piercing certain existential veils, to which Sophia (whose relationship to death transcends in understanding my own) says quietly, "Dad." Dreams of psilocybin in which - under the effects of psilocybin - I dream of great rooms beneath the ocean floor in which vital stories are sustained by bellows the size of elephants. 

Jesus looks angry - I wonder why. What is the relationship between one stanza and another - especially those that aren't immediately adjacent. Wondering for whom my own clothing is possibly floating in imaginal space, if any and if at all. Writing "blowjob" as a form of optimistic spell-casting.

There is no other. Why questions. Photographs of childhood are traps, there is no other way to say it now. Trajectories that lead away from certain flagrancies, motels that are empty now, along roads that are mostly empty, in counties where the prevalence of poetry has been in decline since the early eighties.