Wednesday, August 24, 2022

The Wrong Bed in the Wrong City

We can start by telling each other what our favorite poem is and why.

Doors open, take my hand.

Wind blows through the valley, something howls in the hills across the river, my heart vacates my body, leaving a little note that reads "I was never yours."

We who drift, we who forget we drift, we who wake up in the wrong bed in the wrong city, wondering are we out of time.

Validate the other, nothing else matters.

Making signs for the march.

Under stars with the blind horse in order to learn how to see.

We who were against so much we forget everything good, we forgot how to be for.

The butterflies speak to me, I wish I could explain to you how this is so, it's the only thing that matters now.

Jasper says quietly, it may always hurt, you must prepare yourself.

Debord's point that tourism - "human circulation packaged for consumption, a by-product of the circulation of commodities" - was always merely "the opportunity to go and see what has been banalized."

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

A way of talking about Emily Dickinson that always leaves me wanting to give somebody - anybody - head

Oh so now you want to talk about contemplative prayer.

"Dance the day away."

You cannot take seriously the Sermon the Mount unless you are willing - literally - to die. 

Surrogate victims, our favorite role.

So the sacred has left us, so what, it was always just a finger pointing at the moon, and the moon has not left us, just look.

What is difficult, dangerous, deferential, what is delicious.

Punishment is not real but Christ how much suffering it took to learn this.

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