Tuesday, March 29, 2022

Waking Up Meant Digging Graves

Bruises. Blank pages. It's like bringing order to what is formless, like how happy you can be seeing sunlight on the lake or in a prism.

And begin.

Consciousness is non-dual, you say? Smoking stolen cigars in the mall parking lot, a year or so before the troubles began in earnest. Quarry jumping to impress a girl, story of my life until very recently.

Calves dying in the basement, all I knew falling asleep was that waking up meant digging graves.

I remember nothing now but the absence of any explanation, which left me to find my own way out of the matrix of language and grief which, for better or worse, I never did. Cold rice and peas for lunch, washing it down with day-old tea, what else is new. There is a way to not play this game, would you like me to show you?

Repetition. Refusing rituals and all experiences, even those masquerading as enlightenment. At a late juncture discovering stillness, settling into it, may my body be carried by my chickadee wives home.

Between wind gusts, horses crying out for love.

Alarming lies. How happy I was in those days, that corner in the library, that little apartment on Church Street, that spiritual oasis before I cast myself into a desert which I only recently stumbled out of, unwise and nearly ruined. The Queen has abdicated, leaving me with ten thousand poems and a sense that something is even wronger than I can know.

I mean a juncture where metaphors stop working. Moonlight on snow, something blue and fine grinding all the cursed miles between us into dust.

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