postamble in which jude discovers a convent

jude discovers a convent

under the iglesia de caspana

i open the lid of the desert like a coffin and climb into the shadow of the milky way, scorpions zigzagging up ramps from the graves grey cluttered laboratories to hunt across the undulating memory of sand

my first thought is that i need god - stupid i realize, considering the long ago, the many petty horrors of the temple, its purveyors practitioners charlatans, the sexual hypocrisies, moral schizophrenia, virtue-masked domination, generous ineptitude and imbecility - but there are always ways compounding confounding ways - not only hamlets problem in the pit of polypolar realization but truly unruly what belongs most deeply to each one of us in our common fragmentations

and those other ways - i dont say theyre better truer prettier - but theyre there ... we have to say that for them, theyre here

im not one of those - come back to the church, return to jesus, repent, the error of my life, tears if ones the type, stories blogs books speeches hallelujahing, saint to sinner to saint, as beautiful as flowers in the mud

nothing to do with reason or institution, belonging or forgiveness, regret or insight, nostalgia or epiphany - i just know i need to seek god in the atacama ... not with some intangible or mystical approach, but actually in physical dimensionality

it has we know not even anything to do with god - certainly not any experience notion of god in relation to their existence (a debasing orientation for both god and me) - nothing to do with whether anythings alive or dead (these infantile bifurcations) - but the word itself - i seek the word god - not as an artifact of literacy or monument or manufacture of orality but as indivisible omnipresent immanent numinosity - word as polyomnispiritmeat

i join the scorpions who encircle and look at me incredulously and say - if you question the sign you will get stung and die but if you question yourself yet not as sign well guide you to god

but scorpions i say would you suggest methods for designing myself so i can be so questioned

and the scorpions draw closer, join nippers and sing 

the atacamas all thats left

we predators skittle on the sand

days become the global brand

every now and where its light

whos accomplished this outrageous theft

stranger hunger wronger anger stinger venger

mourning for night

its a lovely song children of serket but were no nearer to signlessly questioning ourselves

they draw yet closer in nippered union and sing

the desert is a jewel

we prey to live live to pray

that night becomes again the day

that bipeds bow to somites

all return to the ancient rule

stinger anger venger wronger hunger stranger

mourning for night

i say nothing and they descend on me like hailstorms and their venom replaces my blood and my eyes become as fallen funfairs and i sink into the sand and dream and in my dreams a temple in a desert raised like a trapdoor and inside are steps downward made of chitin and tectin and theyre sticky and im a mess when i finally arrive at the arcade of the convent of the nuns of knot

a conventual in violet coif veil guimpe approaches from beyond and asks for the shibboleth

i have no idea i say

youre the first visitor weve had since 1649

why a shibboleth then

we are eccentric and melancholy penitents

does that really answer the question

really

im seeking god

so are all we who plod the lost ways

yet youre a nun 

a nun of knot

different

we might let you in but only in our habit

your habits nearly naked

here the habit of the nuns of knot covers only our disgrace and you shall join us and leave your desert rags behind

shall i see god

thou shalt see the unknown across all the faces

i undress and assume the habit of the nuns of knot