Our Religion

We’ll get all serious like and frame that deep look that opens every pore of consciousness.

Our bible spins—fast as earth—in the carousel. Someone hits play. Cherubs float in halves, quarters, eighths, and sometimes in big sixteenth sheets.

Time is the measure of the big swing of bass strings, and our place in the cosmos collapses on a blues theme.

We have our saints and they speak in brassy tongues, and sometimes big, fat, breathy ones. Sometimes they’ll whisper, sometimes roll, or tap, tap, or talk in eloquent patterns of black and white. We listen and we hear.

And it don’t take a church, and it won’t cost our conscience, and clang is no money plate guilt trip, but a high-hat meditation on swing.

And it’s good. We feel it in bone and soul, flesh and breath. There’s no guilt of sin, only life.

It speaks to us in primal tones. We move and sway and yearn to love, and prosper, and celebrate each dawn, and each promise, and each moment thereafter.

Forever.