looking for god

Saturn, it says, devours his children.
Yes, it’s true, I know it.
An ordinary man, though, a man like me
eats and is full.
Only God is never satisfied.

Ai, “The Good Shepherd: Atlanta, 1981”, from Sin, 1986

LORE, Berlin Oct 31, 2017

How we all get busy in not believing
in ourselves despite mixing in mantras
that repeat with each breath—
I am enough

and you in absence,
no more next year.

A week’s worth of grind makes edges
so soft they can’t be felt, just yet—
like observing shadows’ length and depth
and distant clouds thick as mountain ranges.

Day skies still hold starlight.
That kind of worth fighting for.

grasp and release

screenshot from “Alphaville”. Jean-Luc Godard. 1965.

They walk like cowboys, recently dismounted. He eats slowly out of a Trader Joe’s bag, the one that has the laughing donkey on it. We wander to find new ways of understanding old ideas. Innocent babies continue to be born into privilege. Ordinary trauma is a slow build—swinging from want to need, and back to want to be taken. The multitudes of being consumed becomes a careful process of discernment like knowing the addictive taste of dispossession. Although sometimes, with frequency, the loop closes on you. Don’t worry. There is space here, stored as evergreen desires, located between patterns of waves formed from swallowing knowledge by association. It’s been recommended we might feel at the edges for faint annotations of alchemic personality. In the same way, men have learned to cross their legs at their ankles and global fantasies of catastrophe make us proficient in technology. Ritual is perfected suspense. It has already taken place. Events such as these are mere dreams; a tiger, white and mangy, tries to eat my hands from taking up too much space. A way to show how time is wasteless.

as time expires

Praise in the sense that it is an embracing of emerging experience. —William Stafford

Back from the market, Blizzard 2 series, Christophe Jacrot, 50×75 ed 10

A cloudless sky, mostly blue,
held remnants of peach
at its opening edges.

This longing permeates, resisting
a horizon—a working class assumption
of completeness.

Our culture is from men who recorded tides
before gravity from the moon was proved
by future men.

And we must keep living
in that absence.

fake crowds

The past beats inside me like a second heart. —John Banville, The Sea

A Marilyn Monroe Simulacrum, December 2011, Sioux Falls, South Dakota

From football to cult rallies on glacial plains,
America excels at strategies of deterrence.
There is generational learning behind knowing
the difference between submission and giving.
   Release is forbidden.
Americans’ reflective accolades penetrate the best
as fervent belief converts to trembling devotion.
The point being none of this is supposed to make sense.
As true as death, reality always fades.