CosmiKnot

  God is in his cubbyhole  a place usually concealed the slatted chubb-lock doors are today flung wide open   like God’s man spread as he sits performing one-person show a couple stand before him for all eternity I too am invited to partake in a round   this much I gather from the array  of score cards, balls and anti-bac spray with cast-off selection of diecast putters  leaning invitingly against catering table   putting green shimmers with holy portent eighteen solar systems waiting each undulating around dead suns sucking down soft dimpled moons with   down the drain, death-rattle endings pastel draped couple stand ready moon scythes in hand before God discussing something beyond perception         In this vacuum of Summer I feel my chest fill with boundless hope fed by times spent inside finite models of the cosmos   didn’t ever want to fall off the edge of the putting green but knew I would find it waiting even before...

We continue to ask how does it work? Is this not like a white imperialist receiving a beautifully carved shrine then sending it for analysis instead of trusting. Ah faith is the dunces hat of rational Britain. Did we learn nothing from TV episodes of Star Trek about the limits of rational thought? Placebo is the placebo escape hatch of the enlightened. We are still stuck on Freud - analysing away the monster under the bed. How about befriending the monster under the bed? Artists on telly are psychopaths - cue close up of overly slick facsimile of mad elaborately filled leather bound sketchbook. We still want to stare ourselves into oblivion. Analysing your own consciousness puts me in mind of a table rapper unable to hear the dead spirit screaming in his ear but still giving a very convincing performance of channeling. A teddy is not a real creature but we don't tell the child that because that would be idiotic. A child understands different levels of consciousness in a way that as...