26 Jan 2025
Here in the thick of it,
our eyes full of pixels and our veins full of microplastics,
out here with the child amputees in Gaza
and the frightened street schizophrenics in Los Angeles
and the pigs living their whole lives in metal crates the size of their bodies,
our lives ruled by algorithms and wealthy world eaters
as we pray for a miracle on knees made of miracles
with clasped hands made of miracles in a world made of miracles,
craning our necks to see past the giant flashing signs saying
“YOU ARE LOVED, YOU ARE LOVE”
in order to find Defects and Inadequacy.
In the thick of it,
up to our ears in it,
cracked wide open,
wide open to the screams of mothers clutching tiny broken bodies,
to the screams of men on fire,
to the screams of dying coral reefs and rainforests,
to the screams inside all of us saying
“Something is wrong, something has gone very, very wrong,”
wide open to the agony but also to the beauty,
to the booming holiness of the earth and the sky,
to the mysteries hiding in abandoned buildings,
to the noble pigeons whose pristine minds know nothing of Elon Musk,
to that place of tenderness within all of us which we cover with shields and armor and feigned toughness and pretend confidence,
feeling it all,
letting it all in,
the pain and the exaltation
and the weight and the exuberance
and the rage and the orgasms
and the darkness and the light
and the Israeli stormtroopers and their victims
and the bank boys and the savage saints
and that song within all of us calling us home saying
“It’s here! It’s here! Buddha nature is here!”,
and blessing it all,
my darling,
blessing it all.
Here in the thick of it,
our hearts sliced open like gutted fish,
we breathe in the air,
exhaust fumes and all,
and we realize with slowly widening eyelids that this,
this is paradise.
There is no Heaven but That which sits before us
and beats within our chests
and grows the grass
and spins the galaxies,
right this very waking moment,
closer to us than our own skeletons
which will one day be laid to rest
beneath the soil of a revolving ball
in a universe we never once in our lives
understood.
________________________________
Caitlin Johnstone is a rogue journalist, poet, and utopia prepper. Contact: admin@caitlinjohnstone.com
