Darkness, light, fulness and fragmentation. There’s a blaze of light in every word, a crack in everything. The holy, the broken, hope and despair. The road is bumpy, the traffic signs have been dismantled and the engine is stalling. The poet has it all. The singer never knew the name, but had a shot at it anyway. Bullseye.
And we learn from pleasant Bibles that are bound in blood and skin that the system is bankrupt. The rest of culture will never pass through the eye of the camp. The golden axe is at the root of the tree, lo how the dream tree is sighing and shaking.
Is the word lost, is the phrase forgotten? Five years have passed since Leonard Cohen passed into mythology and his poetry is as relevant now as it’s ever been. And painful too. And inculpatory too. Of him who sang the words, who recited the broken hallelujah, who dared not go home with a hard-on, though Spector’s gun was pointed to his head.
Well I am the one who loves changing from nothing to one. And to nothing again. And then, in good kabbalistic tradition, to a million pieces scattered across the threshing floor of the world.
That’s how the light gets in. Gets where exactly? In the soul of a world mutilated by a thousand cuts. A Kaddish for a congregation joined in song. And out of joint.
You wanted it darker, there you have it.
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