The Source of all things

The old monk whispers to me on our way to the bus; “All animals except man know the purpose of life is not to enjoy it.” He used to wear his Kāṣāya , now he shuffles around in baggy jeans and  combat boots. It's November now, and I haven’t been to the temple in months. At the sight of him, I guess he had given up too. A maddening hunger for connection choking us into an abyss. 

All animals except man… then I might as well end it. Next Monday when the sun goes down, I’ll  gulp the barbiturates stacked away in one of the kitchen cabinets. Dissemble, disembowel, and  tear myself to pieces. Oh, la merveille. I think I just saw God. Suddenly I’m alive. Shaking my head in convivial disbelief. How far can I push myself ? My soul slowly departs from its vessel of guts and flesh, as I cast myself into the sea of longing. Still hungry. Disembowel,  dissemble, devour.

All animals except man… he starts again one midnight in Queen Street. 19 and alive with laughter. Hallucinations brought on by Amanita, white gilled, and spotted - Red Death Redemption. From  its pores and teeth, we shall create a new Jerusalem. Plant our own hanging Garden of Babylon.  

Smiling, he pours wine from a rhyton. The sun is up, and the world is bright - I’m still hungry.  Clothed with fawn skin, a crown of ivy. The atheists are praying, and the saints are sinning. If  you’re not clear about which God to pray to - pray to them all. Threaten pious and unearned  melancholy. Dance dance dance - to the rhythm of the drum. Eyes glazed and head thrown back.  To stand and look in bewilderment at the light of our celestial flare, the source of all things. Together we face perpetual vertigo.  

All animals except man know the purpose of life is not to enjoy it. It’s what kills us that makes  us feel alive. So cut, scream, dance, love. Disassemble, disembowel and tear yourself to pieces.  But be warned, 

You might still be hungry.