Just a closer walk with thee
Grant me Jesus if you please . . .
Backstroke,
sidestroke, butterfly, crawl
Swimming
to the moon with Jesus
Lawdy,
don’t that just cure it all?
LET US PRAY
(blonde
blue-eyed Germanic Jesus please hear my prayer):
“
The
performative aspect of living in the love of god, like swimming to the moon on
a gossamer tissue, like living in the USA, it’s hard. Swimming through a
darkness enveloping, bleeding dry tears, What the fuck is anyone supposed to
make of this? Germanic Jesus, can you fix this shit?
“
(sez
Our Lord)
“The moon is the big white everything way up
in the sky. That much is clear. Darkness is what you swim through to get there.
Consider the moon, consider the darkness. The moon is out there. The darkness
is medium. Swimming is involved.
The
moon crumbles away when called to answer on this level. The swimmer as self accumulates garbage like
barnacles on a ship’s hull. Swimming is the process of dilution, the inverse of
money accumulating money. White queens with cellphones dial 911 and cry THE
CHILDREN, the fucking children
which maps like
the
moon – out there
darkness
– the medium
swimming
– process, debasement, death
the
swimmer – a sap
the
children – an imaginary nothing
The
white queen conjures a moon from her speed dial, it’s as bullshit as any other
moon, transcendence here, transcendence there. The rocks under your feet tell
you that the road is a negotiation, that swimming is de-evolution.”[1]
AMEN
[1] It’s really
pretty simple, when you get down to it: living for that thing out there, you
are fucked. You are probably fucked anyway, but still. Turn the process to negotiation,
that’s how the state runs. Name the price, define the terms. As if it is your
price, as if they are your terms.
Point
at the moon with your left hand. At your right, a symbol benighted with corrupt
investiture (say, “the children”). One as imaginable and unobtainable as the
other. The investiture of the white queen, fear, freezes time and invests empty
and absurd symbols, creates her children. And we see the problem right away: death
spawn. The shit is dead. The shit is death. The moon, the children, the transcendent
ineffable frozen like a statue of Apollo, and dead, dead, dead. Dead as the
dream of a crystal city on a hill, dead as the consolation of order by law, dead
as founder’s intent, dead as white dreams of America that you have been sold
like subway tokens to a better world, dead as a heaven that exists only in
books.
