Ambush at the Final Pass

This might well be the slightest of my slight collections, in so far as I haven’t the slightest understanding of how or why I wrote it. It might well have been ghost-written as these days I often feel more of the ghost in me than that eating farting perambulating self. As such I don’t know what to believe. In fact the thing about belief is that, when you lose it, it’s not that you become unbelieving, so much as it is that it is quite relieving. You return to your little self, and look at all the lovely scaffolding in another way entirely. Neither spiritual, nor materialistically inclined, you decline the crozier and the staff, and bow your head, full of the lack of certainty that you have attained, to one sweet sometimes irritating day at a time. How beautiful are the many mysteries that our mind foreplays into exited dances before us. Yes, it’s all quite dirty, yes, it’s full of angel turds, and sautéed tofu as well that devils offer in penance for their mistakes. Nor is there really any spiritual hierarchy to all this transcendent chaos. Peace is there, certainly, but so is uncertainty and a deep unease with anything that does not accept everything. We are in the catacombs for sure, but that’s ok, because we are cats and love to have a good comb sooth us back into purr-fect serenity. We are also the wildflowers that riot unabashedly in fields where life and death keep exchanging places. It’s all one great unabashed coupling. Clothe ourselves as we will, we remain naked to the core. We shout from the top of our lungs to the bottom of our loins that there is no greater blooms than those that come from rotting. We are the soil and the tiller and the farmer and his daughter and the mewling too of something that is just now being born.