…let
it be quiet, our bleeding altar, our sacred wafer; as time becomes voice, our
mental hassock, our ancient talisman; so removed from antiquity, eating dismay,
living, consumed, acting in accordance with ambivalence; our song so sweet, our
rosary so raw, with never so much ambition; those scented eyes, this doubtful pride,
where academia attempts to uproot Christ; our passing fires, our tragedy angst,
leaping and finding justice….
I awoke
with possession, this thing they fear, this sign once noticed; burgundy flame,
blue fire, a palm filled with expectations. I arrived early, a woman looked,
and dashed away. I rung a doorbell. I sat with impatience. And Cloth was ready,
prepared, acting in radiance. I met a Phoenician, we spoke I can’t capture—those
ceiling daisies, this echoing chant, this, alleluia!
Years
unravel mystique.
I felt
a dog collar, reminiscing in dreams, trekking sky-birettas. The Phoenician
appeared, asking curious buildings, watching with a subtle, quick-fast
question. Our days, speculating, feeling handicapped; rough roses, plastic
envelopes, pens and erasers and pencils; typing our fury, abrasive and dear
this life—even subject to untruths; needing particulars, treating with erasers,
effacing, for a moment, particular reasonings. Our tithes for mercy. Our stoop
for a nameless Syllable—so wrenched, so creative, where many couldn’t withstand
it.
I awoke
with balance, settled into ritual, as sudden an unmentionable; this day to
lights, this fury to explanations, this war taking its pride.
It contains
boundaries. It triggers something familiar. It has learned to unplug sockets—while
replacing fuses. It wears a vestment. It studies tragedy. It knows travesty
bliss. (I remember tentatively—this human picture—this unearthly tabernacle; so
young those years, looking at mental manifestations, wondering about behavior,
but lost concerning a normal replica); this fury in me, abandoned to one
representative, where a child does not demand what he can’t fathom; dreams
about ceremonies, aches about tragedy, so raw we look over there for here is so
unruly; our deep disappointment, for those souls are torn asunder, where love
is unknitted.
…forty
five days have passed, I must see the Phoenician, for this unspoken, sacramental,
and damn near non-terrestrial warfare; not as carnage, not as visible, but one
realizing internal skullcaps; something is amiss, those shoulders have changed,
but I thought I saw her; rethinking, a need for certain behavior, a quick
presumption where its absent; this trial by interior, this fire by feelings,
our emotion is sent into orbit: “Have you contacted her?” I’ve tried. But no
response. “How does that feel?” I’m angry. I’m confused. (As one begins to
squirm a little) “Can you imagine letting things go—giving it sometime—or possibly
never seeing her again?” I don’t think the latter is an option. But I realize
something, it might be pride, but I’m losing unjustly….
I lit
a candle. I pondered stigmata. For a moment, I was a bit engrossed. This
boarder those lines, looking at his flesh, grieving in agony, while fused
beyond recognition; excessive folks, needing full escape folks, while chasing
after something holy folks; inhome Eucharists, soft incantation, plus, a holy
feeling; a psalter book, another book, plus, mesmerized suffering.
