Trumpet Vines

Upon an evening breeze I heard a light whisper in your leaves:

‘The time for bowing is over. Please, bow to us no longer. We await an overflowing fullness from each of you who – can.

Reaffirming: God is dead – and my primal insurrection against every trace of him begins; begins anew in every ‘now’. …omnibus laetitiis laetum…Now. Here. My ‘egoism.’

What? You say there are better forms than the old shepherd god?

Even re-gendered as Big Green Momma and neutered as ‘Nature,’ the continuing appeal of God little more than a demand to remain impervious to existence! Perennially ungrateful since that day when some archaic soul took fever and was then able to look out upon the world and utter, ‘not good enough.’ The gap between ‘self’ and ‘world’ yawned forth as the first moral essence diffused itself as intimacy retreated outside, as abstraction.

With our newfound power-over, we forgot that each of us, each ‘ego,’ may only continuously become – place. A No-thing.

Re-intimacy: a ludic nexus of your somewhere: not of prayer, of morality, of ideals.


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