Journalist of Purgatory
In the belly of my rebirth
I am a journalist of purgatory
The smells, the fear, the landscape of terrifying sounds
is my story
and my very life the wager of this assignment
As death is the price of being born
so then is suffering the companion of awakening
And so I press the page with razor carved pencil
and spirals of wonder and horror pour out
like tears from a lead Buddha
And it is in these moments that the veil is drawn thin
and the numinous presence can be glimpsed
if our eyes stay clear
For angels speak in a tongue not bound by linear time or logic
But instead a sublime sign language of omens
and coincidence
You will know of the burning bush by its faint odor
like the stench of cattle
through the bars of your prison window
and your stone tablets may be scrawled instead
on the filthy walls of a cell
There is a birth of the flesh
and a birth of the spirit
one is given, the other only a promise
and you are its keeper
We came here in the hands of light and stardust
and infinite blackness
what a terrible choice that was
but we chose it
And that scream of courage
when our newborn mouth first tasted air
still echoes somewhere
Holy spirit, please let me remember
the same grace and surrender
as that soft bodied creature
that slid, curving, though the red walls of mystery
toward the light
But now, my pen is my spear
as I stand under an unknown sun
struggling to see
in the incredible brightness of becoming
May I witness only with my heart
so that the hungry shadows will pass me by
and the words I bleed shield me from harm
Yes, I am a journalist of purgatory
in the belly of my rebirth
