It was words spoken to the sea: That our death was around the next corner.
That our death was cold, broken and something so unnatural that we, as hosts, were merely what we once believed was travel.
Before the suffering there was suffering.
Before the end, there were flowers from heaven, mana, springs from which water sprang from rock and you understand that water flows from the rock.
Before the before, before the after in which before was unknowable we were shapes and shadows and candles and incense.
Before the after before the beginning before the benign passes your lips you understand the moment and that other moment in which understanding floods our eyesight as moonlight upon a bridge in Paris from which Rilke once remembered that humanity is pain and that we’re all tossing stones before sinking.
This spring has been a slow period. Between rising temperature, desire for connection and my own self-destructive tendencies I have accomplished little of my own writing. The other side of it all is that there’s a chapbook coming out soon from the lovely Kevin Devaney.
But I have been able to accomplish small things, including this little folded booklet entitled “Of Judas”:
And a few blurry photos of the actual booklet:
We thought of Judas
after the war
It was typeface
that determined our DNA
It was not betrayal
because a poem
was about to sprout
from the back
of my mouth