I heard about that bitter little pill
tattooed on our musical skin.
That one pill, recognition.
Recognition of…what? Of one’s humanity?
Of one’s fragility? Of one’s impermanence…yeah?
It’s a pill laced with dread and despair.What does a person swallow that with?
A shot of full consciousness?
A cocktail of imperfection shaken
and homemade bitters?
I giggle in glee when those comics
called philosophers stand up
and passionately extol absurdity.How could they even stand,
what would they stand on
if absurdity was really a thing?
Tragedy is more like it, and even that
only has meaning as a cloud outlined against
the suns of Triumph!
The songs, the drinks and the stings of each,
fears of failure, sieges of shame and selfishness
alternating with doubt and emptiness,
well please explain to me
what’s so absurd about that?
What does that word even mean?
Absurdity?No, give me a good solid word like Recognition.
Because that word contains confession and hope,
errors committed and errors atoned for.
And it makes a safe place for dread,
so it will curl up comfortable by your fire
and snooze in the glow of Recognition.
By the light of Recognition we just make out
that sacred paradox, that deep numinosity
glowing at the crux of our being.
We see that all that’s wrong descends from all that’s right
and the broken bread and the poured red wine
and remembrance and
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