Sunday, May 22, 2022

The Gross Abattoir of the World

Can I be scared? The last time I carried a gun (fifteen years ago?) I watched half a dozen pheasants arrow away from me, one after the other over a couple hours, felt grief but also release – something about the light, something about the gold of their wings – did not lift the shotgun, never hunted again. 
A lifetime of understanding collapsing now, all the fields and rivers welcoming me to this way of being alive. Let us be dragonflies together!
Heildung songs, how did I get this far without them? I hear waves now, Zen bells signifying the end of sesshin, women weeping.
The ancestors watched me, the men urging me to kiss her, fuck her right there on the river bank, but beyond them was a white stag who met my eyes then walked into the forest, making clear the way required yet more solitude. Sitting down to remove my shoes.
Stomach pain arguing don’t even try to make it better. This vagabond of a heart wrapped in blue veils worn by Mary when Jesus was still a child, not yet sworn to redeem the gross abattoir of the world.
We lied to doctors growing up, the doctors let the lies stand, to this day I don’t trust doctors. Green Dragon tincture touched with lavender, want some?
The last time you took your clothes off for me. Emily Dickinson making a new kind of sense, clarifying that the old sense was basically an error, the old longing for companions overriding common sense.
Old sap buckets. Trimming back the raspberries.
Fried clams are no longer sustainable. Chrisoula agrees to let me wash her feet, we cry while I do, and after we make no promises, that is the marriage now, this is the way.
Try this: there is no such thing as a lie, only the truth from perspectives you have yet to consider. Soup and crackers, Agatha Christie, this little light more than enough.

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