Pagan Godspell

I know.

I’d like to be writing a post about the gods of the Pagani, and waxing poetical about Them that Craft Whole Stars in the Red Tide of my Soul.  But the Desert’s taken me instead.  And I’m laid out on a bed of sand, my cheek against the grain of it.

Exhaustion is a gateway to bedrock.  And I’ve seen it there in front of me a few times already.   And I’m thinking about emptiness.

Normally, I’m not a fan of emptiness.  I’m a pirate after boxes full of lust and deliciousness, of fat colors and bolts of cloth made of people dancing tears and sweat and gut laughing.  You know – stuff like that.

But the Desert knows my name in this hour.  And the silence that sits in the heart of a rock says: “this is a good place too.”  There is a lot of poetry here in the exhausted doorway to the root of Everything…making sense is more work than it’s worth.  It takes three years to blink my eyes.  Days are just downtime between dreams.

When my sojourn shedding skin in the company of a joshua tree and the open-mouthed mother of the night sky is through, I will return.  With my pocket full of gods and something solid to my sentences.

In the meantime, I grok lizard.

I pray precious water in the night.