Dayspring

by Anthony Oliveira

i do not know what to do with these strangers who flout your banner how to hold them to account how to wear the vestments they soil in mud and blood

I AM GOD for love is god and god is love and the little soul that speaks us in her humble cell through her love is even god herself thus this precious beloved of mine taught by me guided by me is changed in a twinkling outside herself entirely for she is transformed into me —marguerite porete translated from the french [ unrecanted for which the author burned ]

to know the world but not yourself is to know nothing at all

see sometimes she goes to sleep but other times she starts floating up to heaven like an alien abduction situation (because she was sinless, and therefore couldn’t properly die, which is the wage of sin, is the idea)

i love you and if i lost you there is nowhere i wouldn’t look and if i found you there would be no end to my rejoicing

and i wonder now if you came back if i could forgive your immortality and you my dwindling

god loves most of all what is broken for if our father valued perfection above all he wouldn’t have made anything at all he already had that perfection is just a place to start instead imagine wondrous variety infinite diversity in infinite combinations imagine a god you could impress and surprise him

the sparrow does not worry for the harvest and the flower though clothed in splendour does not sew i promise you if you will learn it: there is enough too much for you and for all and you will be ok

how can anyone wealthy claim to be good?

a woman in labour is sorrowful that her time has come but when the child is born she forgets her anguish someday there will be happiness again and a joy that none can take from us

it’s never going to be the happy ending you want you know that

and i felt the floor drop—no not quite that i felt the atoms of the world slip apart and degauss and i fell through them unsynced defragmented, tumbling like through a world of particle dust. like the letter case of a print shop had tumbled out and spilled all its alphabets across the workman’s floor

and the footprints on the beach were all my fucking own

please wash me your virgin slut my master my sir tell me that i have done well, your good and faithful servant

why do you look for the living among the dead? he is not here. he is risen go out and find him