Art is my Church. Every idol wears its face. I pray in wordworld weary feet and brushed stroke and solder on stringbroke verses. They let the rest stay. They let the rest go. I dont know A God Not as Spirit or Man or Woman or Fish or any other singular name. But I worship just the same. I kneel where feel and flaw and saw and blind and cut and shut open shut open breathe believe meet. However sweet the song However tall the tree grows I do not fall before a singular Creator. I fall for happenstance rapture: Tiny nutmeg spots in snow cream. Eleven eggnog birds cupped pointillist in the home snow outside my window right now as i write this. Eleven is my favorite number. I know religion when cello vibrato baptisms chase heaven from my harmonic spinal chord. There are many sound harmonies. Flared suns howl up and in and out. I climb their harried walls I fall through their steeple elation Into Virgin Mary blooded Into Bodhi Tree rooted Into Ganghes flooded Into Round Dance unbooted Every incidental altar of always is never is now is eternity fleeting. The present pause of existent ecstatic. The gasps of insight between agonies. Nestled inside every one of you is a medicine wheel. You are stained fragile flawless moreish glass behind glass behind glass before sand washes it all away. Finding churches when the current flows. Building these castles when the tide is critical low or high washes the old ones away. My chapel is glass sheet eating freak show. My synagogue is perfect note shatter. My mosque is lead lining and mirror loving and frost tracing. There is no miracle like physical transcendence built from nothing but a true idol idle dream. However long it lasts. My missionary chases unicorns and dragons. To convert myself again. My Gods are not creators. My Church is every Open I. My Gods are Creation.
Posted on: Mon, 29 Dec 2014 00:05:45 +0000
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