Celibacy is its own orientation and does not negate particularities of attraction. Jesus was a spiritual instigator. Quite-famous Jesus was a man until he was an idea until he ceased corporeality until he embodied What. What? “No life, truth, intelligence nor substance in matter”? That, Mrs. Eddy, is a damn falsehood. I exist. Therefore I have called to the seagulls during lockdown escapes. Therefore I lean to the East River. I ask the rippled surface subsume the brick-on-brick buildup of emotion this corporeal Aquarian accretes and re-accretes. I lean to the chill flowing waters. I offload my overly abundant emotional twitch as the man without a mask passes by, as the child scoots far ahead of noblesse oblige parenting, as I replay my father’s anger with a maitre’d thirty years ago. Today’s recycling. Splash and sink, sink and rise, rise and flow, flow somewhere else. Nothing is ever lost? Every container is a plasmic mold, enough elastic there is no need to break it. We are all theoreticals of something more abstract than the unknown. The divine is unknown unless in the moment I am knowing it. Faith is a buffer, a lucky gene, a stone soup of possibility, blunder, errata, good reception. My visitations have been with Mary, not Jesus. Some with the all-purpose unnamable, a presence. For it is written, many are the delegates to the convention. We elect one person after another, gambling this next will be our ticket out.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 4.
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