consciousness, His perception, His now .
His
orbit.
this is how He honed His pinprick-precise, razoredged gaze. how He learned to best reflect the core, the coiled, curdled chasm of our inner mirror-selves.
how He uncovered our wants. how He collected us. how He gathered all of the
wandering, wondering bodies, the drifting, shiftless members of our ever-growing
group.
this is where the recognition, the yes, now, always began.
this space, this in-between place—
this tangled tip of our universe’s boundaries,
the horizon,
the craggy, quivering gap
just beyond the limits of our vision—
this is the point of origin.
this is where the orbit spun into being, where the ions charged to life. how the shimmering, yawning vortex began its
deep, fierce, inescapable
outward spiral.
so Henry says. to us. it is how He explains. how He gathers us back, pulls us away from the thorny, knotted edges of any ankle-deep doubt. from the muck, the rot, the mire.
it is how He herds us back toward His circle, back into His consciousness. back toward the sanctum of His orbit, His always , His infinite, ever-outward spiral.
and Henry’s orbit—
His half-life, His atmosphere—
His word .
is.
always .
truth. peace.
love.
open
i open myself to Him,
toward Him.
to Henry.
for Henry.
still.
now.
always .
at night,
each night,
when He will have me:
i offer my hollow places.
i still don’t quite believe Him,
still am not wholly convinced of the rejection
He so casually references,
of His
preaching,
His detailing of a
feeble,
fractured
conscience.
of blurred but binding boundaries, of a life—
His life, sometime in the unspoken before—
on the outside, the outskirts.
after all,
there is no outside of—
can be no alternative to—
this space,
this collective sphere,
that
we all
have come to know
as Henry’s atmosphere.
His half-life.
His infinite
now .
so.
i open myself.
unfold.
for Him.
toward Him.
always
Him.
Henry.
i expose the howling, hollow places,
offer up the gentle, raw,
in-between spaces.
i listen for sounds.
His sounds.
His word.
His music.
His
His love.
i listen.
for Him.
and He comes to me.
gathered
i am not alone, of course.
my folds and fissures are not the only hollows, the only fault lines that Henry knows.
i am never alone with Henry, not since He first found me, first came upon me, crumpled, crouched, pulling back. first saw me cringing, collapsing inward. since He first recognized that i was
little more than antimatter, a supernova amidst disintegration, imploding, unfurling, giving way to an ever-deepening black hole.
giving way to despair.
there is no alone on the ranch.
on the ranch, life is full to bursting. life on the ranch overflows.
life on the ranch is everyone, always, now .
we may all have been ignored, abandoned, rejected by the
blank, important visitor,
but we still have our
truth.
our love.
our center.
our rudder.
our
Henry.
we are
conjoined,
ephemeral,
infinite.
gathered.
waiting, awaiting:
more message,
more truth.
more love.
His love.
we are
family.
patient
we are patient.
gathered.
we awaken,
we await.
we are quiet, clustered.
bathed in shadow and smoke.
swathed in starlight.
biding our time.
expectant.
Henry has a message,
a truth.
a measure of love to dole out,
to deliver.
and we
are
open.
ego
the visitor has not arrived.
the
important music man
that Henry hopes will spread
our message—
the family’s message—
he has not been by to tour our tattered, winding wonderland. to take in, to drink down our collective, fractured fantasy
in our ersatz-everything ranch.
no one has come
to see us.
to hear us.
to hear
His
orbit.
this is how He honed His pinprick-precise, razoredged gaze. how He learned to best reflect the core, the coiled, curdled chasm of our inner mirror-selves.
how He uncovered our wants. how He collected us. how He gathered all of the
wandering, wondering bodies, the drifting, shiftless members of our ever-growing
group.
this is where the recognition, the yes, now, always began.
this space, this in-between place—
this tangled tip of our universe’s boundaries,
the horizon,
the craggy, quivering gap
just beyond the limits of our vision—
this is the point of origin.
this is where the orbit spun into being, where the ions charged to life. how the shimmering, yawning vortex began its
deep, fierce, inescapable
outward spiral.
so Henry says. to us. it is how He explains. how He gathers us back, pulls us away from the thorny, knotted edges of any ankle-deep doubt. from the muck, the rot, the mire.
it is how He herds us back toward His circle, back into His consciousness. back toward the sanctum of His orbit, His always , His infinite, ever-outward spiral.
and Henry’s orbit—
His half-life, His atmosphere—
His word .
is.
always .
truth. peace.
love.
open
i open myself to Him,
toward Him.
to Henry.
for Henry.
still.
now.
always .
at night,
each night,
when He will have me:
i offer my hollow places.
i still don’t quite believe Him,
still am not wholly convinced of the rejection
He so casually references,
of His
preaching,
His detailing of a
feeble,
fractured
conscience.
of blurred but binding boundaries, of a life—
His life, sometime in the unspoken before—
on the outside, the outskirts.
after all,
there is no outside of—
can be no alternative to—
this space,
this collective sphere,
that
we all
have come to know
as Henry’s atmosphere.
His half-life.
His infinite
now .
so.
i open myself.
unfold.
for Him.
toward Him.
always
Him.
Henry.
i expose the howling, hollow places,
offer up the gentle, raw,
in-between spaces.
i listen for sounds.
His sounds.
His word.
His music.
His
His love.
i listen.
for Him.
and He comes to me.
gathered
i am not alone, of course.
my folds and fissures are not the only hollows, the only fault lines that Henry knows.
i am never alone with Henry, not since He first found me, first came upon me, crumpled, crouched, pulling back. first saw me cringing, collapsing inward. since He first recognized that i was
little more than antimatter, a supernova amidst disintegration, imploding, unfurling, giving way to an ever-deepening black hole.
giving way to despair.
there is no alone on the ranch.
on the ranch, life is full to bursting. life on the ranch overflows.
life on the ranch is everyone, always, now .
we may all have been ignored, abandoned, rejected by the
blank, important visitor,
but we still have our
truth.
our love.
our center.
our rudder.
our
Henry.
we are
conjoined,
ephemeral,
infinite.
gathered.
waiting, awaiting:
more message,
more truth.
more love.
His love.
we are
family.
patient
we are patient.
gathered.
we awaken,
we await.
we are quiet, clustered.
bathed in shadow and smoke.
swathed in starlight.
biding our time.
expectant.
Henry has a message,
a truth.
a measure of love to dole out,
to deliver.
and we
are
open.
ego
the visitor has not arrived.
the
important music man
that Henry hopes will spread
our message—
the family’s message—
he has not been by to tour our tattered, winding wonderland. to take in, to drink down our collective, fractured fantasy
in our ersatz-everything ranch.
no one has come
to see us.
to hear us.
to hear
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