my child, you will ascend water.

it doesn’t matter what
your feet and bones are made of.

let go of the happy bullshit
and do the worm through this
life.

at your best, you are
a comical and clumsy creature—
and it is a mechanism of beauty.

you have permission to do what
you can to survive.

i’m going to let you in
on one of my holy observations:
people are better-off broke, and
running hot with want.

take it from me,
the depths, bread of life,
it doesn’t matter who you think
you are.

black ice is black ice until it isn’t;

i’ve been make-believe,
a gardener more than once,
betrayed for 30 pieces of silver
and prestige.

living in a body is only
groundwork.

sister, i invite you to blunder
your heart out for goodness’ sake,

you are the glue that holds Father;
not the other way around.

there is only evidence
of Father in this tangible world—
how ghostlike he is.

you and i, we die, make Father
important.

there is no meaning to route;
meaning is received in the organic
unfurling of a lifeline, total failure,
taking a good risk and adapting
to a mutation.

life is like that, a circle of knowing
and unknowing.

remember,
the three blind men and elephant—

i ask you: what the hell are you
holding on to?

i, myself, am good
and done with performing miracles—
just clues and enigmas
from here on out.

will you blame me?

here is the book of Deuteronomy
to aid you when the devil shapeshifts.

remember, all of this is for you—

carry close every ethereal and smoky
thing i bestow.

here is a burning bush
for when all falls dark.

because,
in lesson, i turn my back on you.