Pray make me want to be a product of my environment around these ol’ mountains. They built me up so I may stand before them today, profess my weakness feeling peace in my breath and brain-beat, and with rugged belief, declare them cast into the sea. Cold tops, warm tip and I am free to make myself beautiful in all tongues and eyes again, and Salinger’s Seymour is my brother and John of the Cross a deeper-than-carnal lover and I used to want to change the world but now I say leave it in its pied perfection for the coming generations to love and hate and love again, and in saying so, I fulfill both dreams. Abundance for all under heaven.
There are one hundred and eight things I love about the self: how I chose to feel every sensation that I may share the suffering and the joy of the cosmos. I love how I can sit like a vegetable yet through the pen-portal, share the fruit growing from the trees in the orchard. I have taught myself to time travel by listening, can walk invisibly at high noon, eat bitter and sweet without succumbing to a cannibalistic nature. I sing odes to the moon and to the sun, love to pray and pray to love, Schubert for aperitif and tomorrow it’s Tupac; strong, quiet, radiant face and the fun of the secret society that is the beloved pilgrim church on earth, life of the seasons and then beyond them, black love is real love, “the old red carpet is out.” How I love my brothers and sisters who speak to me, how I trust, self-centeredness as a divine symbol and nothing more, the sharp sword, the expanding core, the little helper who mixes concrete, my smile in the light.
The gospel-according-to-the-horoscope said to make plans tonight, but instead I write this, a proclamation of “Generation Y-bother,” enlightened in the golden age of the absurd.
2011, Amaya Engleking