Bible for the Lawn (Swimming to the Moon with Jesus v. 3)

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

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[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.