Thursday, June 30, 2022

Time to Make Arrangements

Or is all death watery.

Jesus was embodied, lived and died, nothing at all will make sense until you accept this.

What shall we listen to in winter if not snow falling, ice groaning in the river, the horses walking over frozen ground towards us in darkness for their hay.

Even our ears tell lies.

They held the coffin by its handles, three to a side, they carried him to his final church service. 

Sex must include "or this?"

Stagecoach piano.

What do you not want to see in a mirror?

Robert Johnson songs at two a.m., stoned, through headphones, world never the same again.

Opening the window wider in hottest summer, breathing deeply.

Insert an ellipsis.

When is it dawn really?

Groaning entering her, still, after all these years. 

Homes we make, homes we ruin.

She leans on the porch railing to call dinner to Jeremiah who is spreading compost in the nearer garden and I study her ass happily, this fine woman, this happy life. 

Thirty years ago waking drunk in tangled bedsheets reeking of piss feeling confirmed and so at last ready to stop.

Does gratitude include amazement always or is it just me?

Always there is this shame whispering to me it won't hurt long.

Is it time to make arrangements, everything dies when I pass.

There are secrets about the stars yet to be disclosed.

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