The zen of ironing dishtowels and christian love

there are only two kinds of love
mother love
and christian love
and I do mean christian love
although devoid of any bias
in favour of any one library
or culture – any cockamamie afterlife insurance
stories about some jewish guy who thought
he could build the dream team
[or at least make something out of a
bunch of dumb-as-shit semitic fishermen –
even if they were handpicked]

christian love is far greater than any Yeshoua
greater even than the concept of a Jesus
a messiah, a redeemer;
it knows no ethnic limits –
in the universe it is systemic
and in the real America it was totemic
christian love is the consciousness
that one is the entire universe
that the universe is one…
and you are it
that love is never given
only shared –
[or words to that effect…
or any effect…
as words
always muck everything up
don’t they…]

this then [sigh] is the rain
[and dampening spraygun] spattered
satori – the zen of ironing dish towels

I do not balk at using wrinkly dishtowels
I simply comprehend better
when I indulge myself in this:
a constancy in flowing motion
the iron’s effortless effort…
a sense of accomplishment
a noticing of the very present details
of existence:
the impending tear near the corner
hidden in the edge of the stripe
the gravy stain receding over time
like everybody’s hairline
the steam that lifts off the board
like morning mist
and smells of
whatever that shit is
they put in expensive laundry powders.

in the end, then, all real love is maternal
[she said as she ironed his shirt]
including the christian one
as there is no more feminine symbol
of unconditional love
than mother Jesus
arms outstretched
[no not nailed up; before]

as for that other stuff
that passes for…
that’s just adolescent hormonal fever
it’s fun, but like chinese food
an hour later and you’re hungry again.







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