The goddess in pain remembers not her godhood at all.
The holy cow garlanded in persimmon colored blossoms,
chewing sacred cud while hobbled and
mechanically impregnated to keep the offering of her milk
flowing free for masses
[and at only two dollars and thirty-nine cents a gallon!],
does she know her divinity in this state?
Oh, Ferdinand.
We live in a cute culture fascinated with the beauty of the perfect, the youthful, the blemish-free.
We live in a coveting culture that admires these qualities, and desires to possess them.
Our need to possess culturally tied to abetting the ruinous.
We live in a culture dedicated to the fantasy of rape,
frothing at the mouth to take a bite out of the
pussy and plethora
laid on tarps after the raids into the lush lands.
Other.
We tell ourselves this is luxury, the way to eat and not be eaten.
Comfort and Proliferation are our Gods, in fact.
In fact, our very Gods.
To live in the now, is to the see the ringed rotted deadfall that was once infinite strong beams holding up the gray-blue,
willing to mourn the fallen sky while simultaneously loving the
remnant whip-ill youth trees in their proto-cadaver state.
Loving and valuing their missionary emissions, their final exhalations into the guts of
mushrooms, porcupines and worms.
[The aborting entolomas love the tree before and after, they do not insist on keeping the
memory of the living tree alive in their hearts in order to fill with evanescent appreciation.
For, now they feast!]
We aren’t feasting, but we still must love the ruin we have before us.
We must love it much more than we did before
[Before- an approving nod at a horrifying codependence case involving
substance abuse and domestic abuse… resulting in homicide.]
This is hospice with real hope for longevity.
This is brave, determined sailing, lashed to the wheel
into the oncoming whiplash water above, below and
all around.
Anything less than real love for this hopeless time will fail.