To my dear readers: Happy Easter! This is my last and deepest word on Grace, this is the
warmth of a loving gun, this is the extinction of a candle that burns too bright. He is
risen. Rejoice, it is eclipsed! Thanks be to God, alleluia-, alleluia-!
If we were to envision a gold light on a cold winter night, would it glow like Christmastime?
I like when time moves by quickly. Much better than slow time. One moment you're watching
the subway workers baptize Union Square station and the next you're in Queens. Be mindful
of those ten seconds you can see Manhattan after exiting the 63rd St. Tunnel. It's over
before you know it.
Long Island City is a cathedral too. Much more orthodox than Manhattan. Newer, too, you
can tell by the way it glistens. Manhattan has a duller glow, like Christmas lights.
My darling, it is almost dawn, and you have brought me, what? The end of a song, the tip
of a blade, a North Star. I follow you, the way a moth follows a fog lamp. The whitest
light of winter betrays heat. I supplicate.
There are days I don't take my medication. Sometimes a smell riles me up and I have no
choice but to walk across Astoria to find it. Walking down 30th Ave again, and I am
fighting against the white light of winter. The descending light, a sad light. There are
memories of gold. This light is less opaque, I see right through it, and it leaves me
speechless. It's a language I cannot speak, but I can feel (I believe).
In a tired acquiescence, I open up my heart to it. Winter light is cold, but it has
something I don't. (Pressured) (against Gabriel angel of mercy killing) I am standing
under the Christmas tree. These Christmas lights are mine. The only thing I own (anything
minus nothing). My Christmas lights betray the white light of winter. I wonder.
In the softness of my Christmas lights, I believe in a Grace. If you believe in Christmas
lights, you will believe this: a freedom persists. The world is dying so it may be
resurrected. ,we circumambulate this clay city, and we have been given a pair of warm
hands to caress it. ,movement is soft, and stillness is hard. ,I keep walking. ,Sacrificial
fervor.
Moon, dragon, sun. Bull, ram, tepid gun.
A saint sighs against all that is one.
The warmth of a loving gun
will grant us freedom. The target oscillates and I can't help but shoot.
A promise that tepid souls may become fervent. And I am braiding crosses on my bed
begging to repent.
At the sixth hour darkness fell over the land
Remove abstraction from this feeling. Run the water until it's hot. Follow Him. Though
we do not see Him we still love Him. Follow Him.
To love without knowing is the only way to love. And the only way to know is with a sharp
dart of longing love. As we pierce the dark cloud of unknowing, we may ask:
Was it the floor or the sky we fell towards as we tore down the tapestry?
If coldness has stricken with a harsh hand, then it is Grace that blushes my skin.
Truth is hard, desire is soft, marble dust softer
The dogs have me surrounded. I can count all my bones, I have turned my cheek. Wild God,
God of mercy, why have you abandoned me? These winter nights seems endless, and in my
Christmas lights I have encountered a terrified infinity. There are patterns within
infinity--visions of giving birth to my mother, and my mother giving birth to me. And
within these visions are images. The first breath, if we can call it a breath at all. Do
you think this breath is cold like winter air or warm like our mother's womb? Or does it
sting like the first breath of spring?
A Grace has choked me because I have not earned it. I imagine this is how a newborn feels
when being expelled from the womb.
Or how Christ felt, watching over his city, weeping (weeping, weeping). Riding only his donkey,
pressurized by humility.
Perhaps I have a proclivity for extremes which is why Grace has chosen me. I've had very
little, I've had everything, and everything is closer to nothing than anything. The days
I eat very little grant me space for everything.
Some days I think something will change so I eat everything. I do not care for Grace all
the time.
Come play outside with me in the wet of the winter sun
I tell myself I do not care for the sun. I only eat light. Something is changing, the
sun's light failed (tou heliou eklipontos).
Take this and eat it. You're confusing distraction with transcendence.
A veil has been lifted, a Love tranquilizes me. An impulse to kneel, a perpendicular fetal
position. If I were to compose a prayer, it would sound like this:
I become sensitive. Sensitivity gives space for Grace. The sight of you brings me to
tears, so I laugh. I supplicate -- serendipity, the metabolic residue of Grace, surprises
us. Sorrowful mysteries.
Can't stop loving those gypsy children on the train
sleeping hard against their mothers' backs.
I pray the rosary before bed and
sprinkle marble dust into the cracks
To look upon one without worship, to imitate without mockery, to eat without tasting.
I think this is marriage. I embody you, I pierce through you. On earth as it is in
heaven. Grace. I is eclipsed.
The First Sorrowful Mystery: The Agony in the Garden
And tears are water, blood is water,
A woman always washes in blood and tears.
The Second Sorrowful Mystery: The Scourging at the Pillar
Flay my flesh and look inside me. No one is more human than me.
The Third Sorrowful Mystery: The Crowning of Thorns
He felt it all. He accepted it all. He embraced it all. In a dream I found a way to
survive and I was full of joy.
The Fourth Sorrowful Mystery: The Carrying of the Cross
Take me then. I'm yours.
The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery: The Crucifixion
What comes to us though we have not yet earned it. What cuts through the prism we identify
within. When the curtains cuts in two, the bodies of those who had fallen asleep were
raised. We're ahead of time. We are risen.
Speaking the words of a prophet dressed like a homeless man. Dressed like one of those
gypsy children on the subway. I took my medication twice today and I'm seeing so many
stars. There are empty constellations, too, and we pray to those like any others. Grace
has come unto us, and we continue to suffer.
We possess the world as it is and cry when we are stung
Only a sharp dart of longing love
is strong enough to pierce the dark cloud of God unknowing. I rode through the tunnels
of Manhattan and prayed against a time a-flowing. Grace is begotten to those who age.
I weave my palm tree cross braids and crush my calico cage.
The last and the deepest word:
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction?
What is distraction? What is distraction? What is distraction?
I entered the coldness of a dream and fell into the fragile strength of a sibylline Grace.