05 April 2015

Postcard 11

The cup is a small sacrilege, the ladle, the gourd. We may be forgiven it with only the purgatorial cost of longer, more secure lives. Plumbing though, is a true heresy and we are removed finally and totally from grace through it. Each river seeks the sea to pay tribute. The bay and the willow cast themselves over in solemn prayer. These are the cherubim and seraphim. And each creature that must return to the source bends its neck for the honor and with a crack and a strike the holy blades are bared in teeth and claw and ivory and an offering is made.

So see, ashes to ashes, dust to dust is the rubbish of a sun god. First , most truly the breath, then the substance the water, and what is left -- dust.

Get down on dirty penitent knees. Smell the air for fear that must and should be felt. Push your hands into the loamy boundary and feel the infinite deaths beneath you. Lower your head and submerge into what sustains, and give yourself a moment. Fragile open ribs. Neck as to an executioner. Eyes, ears, all receptors closed but to a still moment on a razor's edge of potentials. Drink.

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