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GaiaGaiaCan you see me?What are your branches, where is your face?If you truly have apples in your cheeks and leaveswoven into you then where am Iin your eyes? Though you arehereyou are also across a sea, a rift of moleculesand grassand whispered sighsthat we write off as simplynothing. If you put down your rootsdo we grow together?As your boughs climbto exultant heights I sit in the deepest depths of scholarliness, I amas a childcome before a maelstrom, and Ifall from myself and intowhat?Your eyes reradiate all encompassing warmth,chlorophyll love.Can you see me?Do I want you to?Noah Heinrich
SecularitySecularityI am chanting mindlesslyto the music, and Ido not find anythingworth spelling, because what islanguage to a priest, what istime to a cleric, a bishopwho can only bless his own reflections,a rabbi in a world whereeverybodyis circumcised, butonly he knowswhy?-Noah Heinrich
UntitledStoryI once met a man with no name. He had no family name, no middle name, no first name, not even a nickname. No one knew where he came from, or where he was born. He had no religion to speak of, and he seemed to belong to any ethnic group you care to think of. So nameless was he. What does one call a man with no name? Mostly, people called him You there or Hey, You and Asshole, this being Chicago. As to how I met this man with no name, the story begins thusly.I was standing in line at a hot dog cart downtown. The guy in front was ordering, and it was taking him forever. Id like it with ketchup and mustard, and relish
no! Not relish, onions. Make that relish and onions. On second thought, no mustard. Actually, with mustard, but only a little
Well, you can imagine my frustration. Here I am, on my lunch-break, hoping to get a nice warm hot dog, dragged through the garden, and a large Coke. I hadnt eaten anything s
Dunino DenDunino DenThere is a placebehind a churchfar away from here.A place where ghosts froma misty past minglewith the sleeping spiritsof trees. Where a stagnant well,with all religious implications lost,plays a duet with a clear brook. Charmsdecorate the honeycomb cliffs,and tokens hang from branches likewasps nests. Grass does notgrow, behind that graveyard,because the ground has already been occupiedby a force of dead leaves and needles.In that hollow, assaulted on all sides bydwarf mountains, there are stairs, impossiblyantique. They lead to thedruid well, which Imentioned earlier. The sun patternsthe soft ground and mossed rockwith spots, making the placea giant sleeping leopard. Sowhen somebody saysTheres no such thing as magicI can smileand simply say,You have obviously never looked behind a church.Noah Heinrich
Smells Like EnlightenmentSmells Like EnlightenmentDo you smell that?Thats the sickly sweet stench of serenity.Put your nose to the shadowand take a whiff. It burns thenostrils, and to be honest,its a load of crapwrapped in popular culture and fads,put in a box decorated withplastic lotuses. Middle class and agemothers and fathers slowly becomingmystics and lame saints. Jollyfat men holding burning sticks,ash falling on his most reveredbald pate, laughing at himself andeveryone around him, saying,Who are you? What do you hope to gain?Stainless steel and brass loops selling fortwenty dollars on a higher broadcast,koi fish wrapped about arms, this yearsgrim reaper in ink.Chi, ki, in a starbucks cup for a buck ninety-three.Sit back, breath through your noseand smell the incense.Noah Heinrich