pSunday pSalm
www.thegateless.org
Scree Con/Jur/d, 3/3/2024 Imagine death to be an arid gully, overfilled with hum of insects, hot leaves, dusty shale the deer skull in red, red fall leaves, once mottled with moss, now calcified, cracked duff is pale, faded brown, shaded to white subsumed by this relentless stale air consumed by stillness, not only our unseen- Between, all is overlaid by heat’s rippled distortions with their boundless center wrapping, obscuring concrete, rebar, tar, girder, girded and other conceits of humans, like nobility, rightness certainty, stale flavors of ignorance disrupted by Flash of sunlight undoing the solar gods constructions bricks molded by sterility, purity and organization, these struts and frames shed, driven out by thorned and wild tangles of scree What we are, is left behind, abandoned this husk devoid of moisture, unable to sprout, support soil, or make sense, leaves only defeated dirt unconstituted and unalive, yet the scent of something cool Just there! Beneath this ambient, this untuned cartography a trickle -- melody runs through, bobbing up and back down, passing under rocks and pebbles branches and bone, too dead to rot, abandoning the fecundity of chemical caring Disappearing, at last, into a cacophonous breach, possible break given shape by sounds of falling, falling into unknown dark, dark, finally, finally, we slip, slide and follow follow, our way back home.
Much love,
Con/Jur/d, 3/3/2024
