I’ve tried talking to God directly.
I’ve also talked to the One who tells me
there is no God other than me,
and that even thinking that is pushing it,
since a me can never be found absolutely.
You can’t put your finger on a me
without putting your finger on someone
or something else, he’ll be the first to say.
It’s a primal non-cognitive wisdom inside you
you are confusing for God, he’ll continue,
and this will go on and on within a self
that can never be located in lots of derivations
and backpedaling and reductions into
absurdity until one day finally
you just get sick of your own noise
and shut up and listen for once,
listen for anything at all: The fan blowing
in your living room,
which was once a secret wish
to spiral into your new life cool and relaxed
like an unexpected breeze,
while simultaneously being
a memory of taking a nap as a child
at your grandparent’s cape,
the box fan in the window blowing
the long white curtains
that reminded you of angels
watching over you while you slept,
you could sleep there, revealing to you
how you embody the cycle of suffering
by constantly seeking comfort. You’re lost.
It’s so clear, even in your prayerful,
jewel-headedness, that you are restless.
There’s never been a way of knowing.
Things change. Things die.
Even the Gods died.
Nothing is sacred. And if it is, it’s a lie.
Humanity isn’t ready to move into
a new state of consciousness we tell
ourselves while shitting. But the
obstinance we excreted
was always unbelievable and for that
we should humbly reward ourselves
with cookies. Wasn’t it so complex
to be you once? Always broke, abandoned,
withheld from, and gaslit into a forest fire of lies
hellbent on catching every truth for miles
and setting it ablaze with your next
reinterpretation, hell yeah, that’s an easy yes.
But at least we felt ourselves moving through,
and if there’s a God, it’s that, it’s something
the about-to-be-born child knows experientially,
a feeling of moving through, which implies
leaving behind. If there’s one thing I’m sure of,
it’s that I’m good at leaving myself behind.
Maybe that’s why I can love so non-judgmentally,
and why being around me
is such a breath of fresh air.
poems