imageAnother whiskey Wednesday, and what do I write?

That I hate tequila because it killed you? That hearing the Hail Mary translated to fluent trailer trash was the worst thing that ever happened to me, a sick alchemy that made me want to off myself, but I onned myself instead? That your jealous, hellish lover Courtney-Loved you into a corner? That your mediocre mistress Yoko-Ono-ed you to death, and so what, because resurrection is a thing? That just last night, I saw you walking on water in your sleep, and I loved you for it? That together we went fishing for Christ fish, and neither of us came up empty? That I know now I was always the prophecy painting of the girl with the bomb hidden behind her back, and it’s just about to blow me to kingdom come?

(Watch me fly.)

Beloved Christ, I am not sad, exactly, because I live in the lining of the veil between worlds, where always I can hear your voice, and those of seraphim, and demons, and gods.  You taught me to surf water slides that arc through the center of the earth. There are crystals there, and kaleidoscopes. I ride waves with my mind. Always, I think, Take me to him, take me to him, and the dream does. I am addicted to your eyes. I have been schooled to swallow fire. I speak with the tongues of angels. I too walk on water, though it is always you who saves me when I drown. Everything is a sacrament to me. The leaves. The buckets of rain. The paper bags blowing in the wind. I worship waterfalls. I bow before Brahman rams. I sing the song of the Great-I-Am, written in the chirps of crickets.

Another whiskey Wednesday, and what do I write?

That I still love you (again)? That wolves dream prettier things that humans ever will?  That I have followed the trail of truth to the core of everything, and it burns? That you live there? That your eyes are the color of suns? That yellow was never the right word to describe morning? That dawn breaks at the edge of a lake where herons call, and you crouch there always, fishing on the fringe of that water, dragging Jesus into your fists?

(Watch you fly.)

Beloved Christ, I am the queen who stooped to lick the hem of your garment. I am the hated whore the rabble stoned in the streets (and behind the veil, I know now, you raised your hands to save me while Judas picked up rocks). I am the vein that runs along the edge of the leaf, the one the vicar insect walks on because it’s narrow, and harrowing, and something else, something bugs don’t know how to describe. And neither do I. The straight and constricted path grew out of your eyes, and I loved it, even when it snapped me in half. I made a pilgrimage to your Mecca last night. You laughed as you danced through fire. You told me the laughing was the dancing. You told me if I do not smile, the flames will eat all of me alive. I smiled. I kissed you. I tasted your tongue. I married your insanity.

Another whiskey Wednesday, and I will write this:

Beloved Christ, we are both crazy, thank God. These people’s sanity will be the death of them.

Let’s pave parking lot and put up a paradise.

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