A soup made of ash
A Burn of recyclable papers and cardboards
Down at the bottom of the garden
The embers stirred reveal the sign, the answer:
A labyrinth
A ritual in the suburbs
Dog barkings in the suburbs
The flicker of television incandescence through curtains
Ritual summer insect pissings and fuck juices dripping out of trees
I dodge their puddles on this night walk down to beach
To see the sky of stars uninterrupted
Every ritual needs be marked with the meaningless sucking
Upon cigarette
And so I threw my pride and my envy
Into the waves - those two twitching,
Fake silver rings that never fit me -
To make room for Grace and Fierce Kindness
And I didn’t take any hostages,
No mementoes witness to this.
I’m probably wearing the jersey of a dead woman
Here in this everlasting ancient moment of cacafonic,
Globalised, gifted-on potlatch ceremony.
Everything’s falling apart in order to come together again.
Everything:
I am in absolute, astonished awe of you.
The dance of machines, the sentimentality of meat bodies,
And all these other abstract things to hold on to inside
The cult of the beautiful;
Spiritual ideas, chicken - and - egg conundrums and debates
That urge us on upstream against all the odds;
The tools we seek, ask for, and find,
Like Grace.
Like Akashic records of you held in the code of the blood of you,
Everything, Us;
And those tools:
The enigma code breakers to guide us in
The deciphering of your languages
As though we could know you from
within our world, Your Machine,
With a certainty that your mysteries could be apprehended -
Art, music, poetry and prayer,
Then
Grace.
To sleep, then!
And dream.
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