Something smells good, let's find out what - how many stories begin that way? Lately, the sacred heart with which I was born - and into which I must die - resembles a baby bird straining for food at the nest's edge. This dream, this game - why?
What we learned atop Wheat Mountain. I remember driving past the entrance to Jamaica State Park years ago, turning around, asking directions and then going forward over a narrow bridge to the river of forbidden love which of course is not love at all. Winning at chess, losing at chess.
Night passes as a text held up to clear light, and the priest in me curses again the useless litanies of prayer, the empty expressions of power. Imagine walking your mother through the parking lot back to her car, wind blowing, her voice lost and you only just now realizing she is old, does not remember her own name, needs you to lean on, et cetera. We level up, we leave behind childhood, we ascend in ways that were not initially predictable.
Unlivable. Stepping off the gallows, dreading the strangling pain to follow but grateful that the end game has at last revealed itself. Polishing quartz, not unlike a mouse in a snake's cage.
Where there is nothing except nothing. One stands quietly under the hemlocks pissing, happy as always to hold their own dick. I ask a lot from a cup of coffee, I really do.
Passing through the city at dusk, especially grateful for the many pigeons darkening the sky with communal spirals and dives. Are we really just maximizing our ability to not be hungry? Many messes.
The unwashed masses. Tracking a certain dog from here into the afterlife and beyond, confident in the way he is confident.
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