Zen and Vodka

The cardinal climbs heavy pine branches, not quite settling in one place for more than a moment or two. I hear her higher song and listen for her mate. A white world covers the notes of what was once alive cauterizing the spaciousness of my heart. Snow hangs in sheets over the pergola, unable to stir in dawn's movement. My god, how I long to trust the simplicity of love! On hands and knees washing floorboards I hear the Bible-study ladies' admonishments rising with every filthy wring: Do everything as if unto the Lord. Pretend you are cleaning for Jesus! I asked them what it was like making love to God; maybe that had something to do with their reluctance to commission us to Africa. In the end, I scrubbed floors for Jesus in Kenya, her red dirt turning my water to blood.

More days than not now, life is sterile. Everything righteously put in order. Yet what tends towards chaos creates a perception of lack. Still. I am eating from the plate of everything I ordered.

Studying the zen voices brings relief. Though in the same way vodka abates, the tenor of their smooth answers allow a temporary distraction, followed closely by the surround-sound of my heartbeat ripping itself from the comfortable cage.


So it seems that one must surrender to the idea that winter remains choice-less.

So it seems that this theology on the rocks is deemed sufficient.

So it seems that my designated meal is satisfactory without dessert.


What a liar love has made.