An Ethereal Register

What we mean by “easy.” Mist rolling off the mountains, my heart trembling in its bony cage. Kisses, holocausts, miasmas generally.

 

Walking outside at 2 a.m. to piss like in the old days, the horses stamping, surprised that anybody is up. How hard it was for him to be my father! I see things I hate seeing, accept them, accept the hate, keep going, what else is left now.

 

Starfish at low tide. It’s funny but you realize you don’t have to solve the problem of death because it’s not a problem. Pumpkin seeds, walnuts, raisins.

 

I am urged to new heights. Making an argument for celibacy in an ethereal register I did not realize I was capable of. Ordinary woes.

 

Pumpkin spice coffee, sipping it during a meeting, mind wandering, is this the end. It’s hard to get past possession and ownership, isn’t it? So much of peace has to do with refusing to accept the distinctions society imposes based on its confused idea that we’re bodies in a world.

 

Not yet Easter but I’ll keep you posted. Chrisoula meets me in darkness in the hay loft, we talk about my cousin in Florida, beyond the reach of all of us now, facing the lonely death that from time to time we are asked to die. Imagine the mind of Augustine.

 

Studying the earth for signs of resurrection. Certain dreams that happen over and over, as if you are trying to warn yourself or teach yourself something but can’t for the life of you remember how.