LIKELY THERE'S
NOTHING I CAN DO
Outside the Cathedral of St. John, some kid's garden
of junk is cluttered and wavy. They've put statues up,
of birds and fairies and peasants. As if a left-leaning fantasy
of that good-will would translate into a deliverance within,
all the people still line up and wait for their inside tour of
the church. Not much of anything but asking for money,
looking at things, a transept, some windows, places of
the dead. I get so bored so quickly; even looking at
those girls manning the registers at the gift-shop, all
hands-out, dollars for dollars or you can't go in.
Good practice for the gate house in Heaven.
-
The blue sea drives home its points; the world
around us is the world within us - without words it
lumbers along. We make our meek adjustments, as
Hart Crane tried putting it, and then something about
a kitten in the doorway . Who knows? I no longer do.
-
When you're running an almost national church, what's to
be done? Paint the ceiling with the hired hands of the
local Spanish kids? Probably punks all. Call The New
York Times to cover the new kids' playground in the
back of the hall - gravel-covered sandboxes, new candle-
holders, new lighting? None of that will get you anywhere.
-
The point is all so missed - this is all for naught. The
world in front of us, invisible and sound and present, cares
nothing for the little tries we make to acquiesce in believing
we are whole. We're not. We're not. We're not at all. There's
a gaping wound in the center of our hearts; a running trench
out of which all bad feelings flow and seep and take over
what little is left of this world. So, count up the dead,
paint up that ceiling, put the cash boxes away, and let's
get ready for the going, get ready in any fashion we choose.
No comments:
Post a Comment