A Gift of Morning

To dose is to give, a gift. Not to be confused with to douse, to souse. I felt somewhat pickled yesterday morning waking up absurdly early to get to my 2nd Pfizer dose down at the Convention Center, no time for coffee. This diabolical virus travails! (And it’s not often I use the exclamation point.) But I felt peaceful, if not happy, and light in the early morning sun. I was reminded of commuting days, leaving home the morning still night. Ah, but the morning! The fresh starts! The spring smells fueled by a full spring sun. The Convention Center was again abuzz, as if for a game or a concert. The loop was well oiled, and I soon found myself sitting in the waiting area for 2nd dosers, 15 still, quiet minutes, like sitting in church, waiting. I prayed for peace, happiness, and lightness, for myself and for others who came to mind, those I love, and those I don’t, feeling none too much any of it – had I been in a cot instead of a chair I’d have fallen back to sleep. Holy Thursday on the Catholic calendar. The Last Supper. Today, Good Friday. All bearing crosses, awake and asleep, crossing, looping in lines for the wearying doses, soused by the pandemic, in procession, waiting.

Utopia

A place exists, not external to terrestrial time, and unconcerned with cosmic time, and not ignorant of clocks and calendars, but where one has no need to know precisely what day it is, day of the week or calendar date, or the current time: here, there, or anywhere. Call this place, notplace. It’s not a place one goes to, more, it’s a place one appears within, unannounced, unexpected, without predetermination, appointment, or predestination. And notplace is empty of assumptions and predispositions. This is not about bliss or heaven, some sort of painless state and such; it’s here, and it’s real. Also, it’s not about the Now of mindfulness. Even now is irrelevant in Notplace. All reference, research, redolent of time, disappear. It’s not seasonless. The sun still burns and the east wind still blows cold. The sun rises and sets, or appears to, and the moon shows and not shows, and the stars are there and not there. And, of course, there are no words spoken, no words heard, none written: it is a place of prayer.

Horny Theology

A rufous whistled
and hummed
at my open door.

She flew at my heart
picked and snatched
hairs from my chest
for her nest.

Me flat on my back on the floor
while she sits on my face
hooked to my lips
slicing my eyes
like an ophthalmologist.

Her every winged flush
as sweet and powerful
as a rush of butterflies

falling
filling
my coughing joy.

To and fro
true and from
until

‘harumph’! 

she blurted out
and bolted off
as quickly as she came.

I thought she was a unicorn
or a rhinoceros with wings.

She left me
without a prayer.

Seven Days in May Not; or, A New Lord’s Prayer

Our Potus who hides us
from sea to lake crisis
hollow is your name.

Thy Kingdom rots
from east evidence storms
to trans west fires.

Feed us our daily diversions.
Forgive us our not tots
as we forgive those
who abandon us.

And lead us not into fees and tolls,
but deliver us our lowly titles
and our vulnerable genders,
our human based prayers.