There was no breathing; there were no lights. Songs just kept coming from under the right vestments out of all the crackers there ever were in this native land of cracking weight and smelly shoes. We are America the beautiful and ugly at the same time. Those who push for independence swallow thought through a straw made of backward words. Those who follow the right make recipes for baking from out of the last colonels of corn found under the pantry of God the limited Creator.
My days start away from these, into the yellow blinding light of that which is before any time is taken, any breathings breathed, any noticings noted. The mind wants its time, but I want things to be vacuumed away from this unimagineable space, slept into a corner by the thugs of everyday’s watching and left to rot on the windowsill of all the Aunts and Grandmothers throughout time who have ever left a pie to cool where there could have been a tornado.
I love all my people, even the ones I have never met, for they are there, too. They are there even before place was found and will be there after place is gone. And even this place will go, and even these. Even yours and all of mine, but what’s now is now, and it is bright with Presence. It is bright with feeling, an opening flower to Infinity which smells like all the worlds smell like before time, and space, and pie, and aunts, and all my people.
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