What was I going to say next, sunrise minutes away on the planet that makes it’s own gravy. Another big prayer…
Oh Lord Horus, reason over conflict, size of spirit no object. Man becomes flesh and saints are beacons displaying excruciating disparity between desire and transcendence.
The Earth becomes flesh and modern exclusive doctrines exonerate personal loyalties. Dear death and sorrow, since I am typical in my lust for plant life, specifically the noble oak and the hell hole artichoke heart; wean me off the predilection for indiscriminate meat celebrations and lack of grace as a human carotid chomper.
Occasions manifest a troubadour spirit in my nature that is the capricorn lover in me, but the sun is my experience and your gift to everyone thing within your glare. Absolutely bless me and I will savour your illuminations for I realize your eternal docudrama approach to justice and vision are beyond editing.
As a humorous monument to our demise, as forms that seek to dis-associate from one another in a meaningless fortress called the mind give us a blind spot. People should gain contempt for noting contending for first lace or names assimilating radical monsters into our digestive tracks. Even steven and prophetic man handling be our doctrine. All ruled by a true heart and gastronomic cleavage of mind and body in the celebration of an ancient crawl from a tepid sea circa fifty million years ago.
Thank you oh great spirit and forgive us our thin Vermeer’s for heart break is our hotel and civilization our highway. The race course is not a means to an end but only a subordinate movement in the departments of democratic truth. I might add, this unique sequence of images affirms a child like unimportance and exploration in the final terms of our contract. As participants, what ever comes our way we are grateful.
copyright Napoleon Brousseau 2012