Felix Fluxus

I don’t know what I want or don’t want. I’ve stopped wanting, stopped knowing how to want, stopped knowing the emotions or thoughts by which people generally recognise that they want something or want to want it. I don’t know who I am or what I am. Like someone buried under a collapsed wall, I lie under the toppled vacuity of the entire universe. And so I go on, in the wake of myself, until the night sets in and a little comfort of being different wafts, like a breeze, over my incipient self-unawareness.

“What the dying too often realize too late, what the dead try to speak back to us from across the river, is that a bowl of cherries passed and received, scrambled eggs cooked for and eaten with someone we love “is everything,” is sacramental, is holy communion, is the touch of love. We don’t go to a church and gather around The Table of New Life because that table alone is holy, nor because that exchange of life and love in the form of bread and wine can only happen there. We go to be reminded that all tables are holy if we pay attention and consecrate them with love and humanity and reverence. All the tables around which we gather with partners, families, friends, classmates, work colleagues, and strangers are potentially sacred meals if we are present and grateful and aware. The Jewish philosopher Martin Buber said “One eats in holiness and the table becomes an altar.”

“At this stage in my career, I’m not looking for a poem that is completely clear and leaves the world a more comprehensible place. I’m looking for a poem where the surface is clear, so you don’t have to guess what’s happening, but it deepens your experience in the world, which actually becomes stranger and more mysterious over time, rather than more familiar.”