This is one of my favorite prose-pieces...I wrote it...at least ten years ago. I seem to remember writing it while sitting in my yard around Easter-time. Perhaps that accounts for the Christian imagery? I can't remember. But I've not simply visited numerous churches in my life, I've danced in them, so perhaps all those experiences led to this experiment in language, time, and faith.

the hermitage

Man goes far away or near but God never goes far off—he is always close at hand and even if he cannot stay within he goes no further than the door”—Meister Eckhart, 13th century Christian mystic

 

                                see here.  the path of crumpled crocuses leads only to the

church.  the cross, crossed by the coruscating terror of reins of unleashed light, drips

 

divine drops inside the church.  the rain no less than a miracle falling inside on an anointed night.

 

a garden grows in the unrestrained reign of light, the sanctified sanctuary where the anointed one passed his last few hours doubting his life and fearing his forthcoming death with all his

 

                                                look here.  the gate to the church is open. 

 

wait here. 

 

itrample crumpled purple violets until i reach a gilt door, auspicious.

 

suspicious.  who is really inside?  i admit i do not know

                               

                                                                until i kneel before carefully crafted idols, sculptures who wait patiently in unsculpted time

 

for what? watch.  the demons of my doubt swell in despair contemplating the eternal night of the one anointed by nothingness,

 

christ the weeping buddha bleeding from the insight of his deep dark inner eye.

 

why do you call me? you don’t need me you have dueled with the duality of pain and joy in this world.  youhave

 

transcended.                         

  you must be laughing at my not-letting-go

 

but i can’t  let go.  it is too difficult to discard all caring in this world.  maybe we are nothing really except space maybe we are nothing but all we leave behind is caring if the planet is annihilated the space will always be draped in layers of love.  love never disappears even if people leave, the conservation of matter and energy pales beside the preservation of love--

 

tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock the only clock that matters is the clock of our hearts in its ceaseless beats drowning out ungodly ogres of damn demeaning doubt.

 

                                i ask you again why you call me? do you want me to drown in heartwoven woe?  i cannot do that i am not christ the weeping buddha, the lord of letting-go,

 

look inside.   there it is. the hermitageour long destined destination where anchored anchorites live amongst icons of their faith in frayed clothing but their smiles are not frayed they are mined from pure light, the ore of the soul which glows deep in the earth-soil  after all perhaps  the earth in its soaring core is nothing more than the invisible source of souls and so therefore we are nothing more than the hurt of the earth, the unbearable beauty of its being, the intolerable terror of its insignificance?

 

significantly you look at me now.  yes you are right let us go inside where anchorites cry into the core of their molten icons,

 

their candle-lit truthmore candescent than all the foolish philosophy that hardens a hurt-hardened heart.

 

i do not cry.  why do you say so?  the tear is a chimera of chemicals.  might you refrain from saying such things? please?  ok.  the lights

 

lighting the way to bliss illuminate the clues of a recluse, who always steps into  shadows cast by compassion, following a path lit with loss of self,

 

ah!  to have an ego completely extinguished

 

100%.  a dream too good to be true? but then i dream a thousand dreams every single day and in the space of every single night i single out  words of the invisible veiled by the vileness of the real world so tell me what is

 

true?

 

look here.  with the lantern of our lost selves we notice a small note.  it is written in the handwriting of god. but we can not handle such handwriting it is too beautiful, too damned full of great depth and light so literally lit-up it laughs off the dark the dark that is no more than a momentary phenomenon but the dark knows we are so susceptible to its hunger because we live only in the vividly trivial we imbibe deeply of the inanity of our naïve selfish vanity

 

so few sow a soul in this world.  it is live and die live and die your life is only truly a viscerally real lie.

 

oh to live in the penmanship the close companionship of god!  to have your heart only in god’s unwritten handwriting.   do you laugh at me?  most likely.

 

                                maybe we are damned in gods well-written hand?  no, no, i do not think so.

 

we are at the hermitage the crocuses crushed under our very footsteps.  wait.

 

are we already inside?

 

oh we are.  yes we are. you never went anywhere i only came to you.  we are already inside.  i open the

door leading out of the hermitage.

 

it creaks.  slowly.  the dust of the earth puffs up in our faces.

 

i open the door

 

unlocked                                               look

 

here.

 

oh

 

do you not see?                                     

                                                                see.  hear.

                                                                now here.

 

 

tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock

 

               

 

God?

 Christmas Eve, 2015 at the Carmelite Monastery, St. Louis

Christmas Eve, 2015 at the Carmelite Monastery, St. Louis