Awake, is all.
Rising without inspiration, revelation, recollection, premonition, venture, horror, or scripture is a gift. I like to wake up empty & dull.
I like waking up with a soul of ice, undripping with dreams sloshed over the sluice of sentience.
You don’t see Jesus prancing around the flight deck when he rose.
I like to awaken blank and bare, without mother or father, past or future, book or speech, laurel or thorn.
° ° °
The orphancy of waking, the umbilical cut from a dying dream.
The poverty of sunrise. Last night evicted yesterday, dropped its shit on the street.
Yesterday is morning breath.
° ° °
The screaming poverty of birth. Every time I write, I’m born again.
Yesterday is afterbirth.
° ° °
The poverty of resurrection: even the grave is empty.
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“Trill” are my Twitters. Tweet suites from @slowreads.
Photo “Denver Sluice” copyright Nick Ford. Used by permission.