Friday, August 19, 2022

A Mouthful of the Apocalypse

I never go away. Sex is hard to see through yet still calls me forth in luminous lovelily ways. Every cup of coffee is a mouthful of the apocalypse.

What we want and get and wish later we had never wanted. Fields of ripe corn along the highway. Prayed and was allowed to pick up the mountain but lost my focus and so wasn't allowed to throw it into the sea, nor to put it down at all: this this.

No to those frames in which kisses are bound by chronology and order. Bitter swallows. It took a long time to see how confused I was. 

Sinnerman. Saving up and other mistakes. Letting Jesus go but grabbing him back, exactly what the early followers could not do. 

There are laws, they are not negotiable, they are totally neutral, there is nothing else to say. Dawn coming down the river towards me in my grief. It's not nothing, it's something but what, or is that a not-helpful question. 

Joe Roberts and his oxen all over again. One weeps before the many butterflies, the impossible beauty, the inevitable deaths. Oh so now you'd like to talk about power.

Waving at her from the grandstand along the old racing track. Everybody's got an angle, just don't let them lose their spark. 

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