Consider this: On march for long-haul Convexity, I was listed out, pacing my names for each serenity prayer. She was coy, unknowing under all blackened sediment, I fissioned myself in red hot eruptions, afterwards laughed daintily below my canine wailing, spoke candidly of perverse, hasty delusions, plainly synchronistic things, those fleeting fallacies: reason and meaning, I spoke often of God, Enough for us both. Post-two years recuperating, the center-death grip’s depressurization, Now Alone an oscillating, Convex-trend-trudging. Prone all the same to quick bites, yet quicker come downs, course correction. I speak often of the Mountain and care not for endless easy-come metaphors, weapons grade technology, ill-sought vices. In the loosening wont to declare victory, yet another prong to unswallow. Still I’ll speak the tall Way’s treachery, moderately good advice and pointers to aid your unfolding. But as for me, it's the same old same old avoided dollar words, kanly testaments. Say little of rightness, truth, only much-wrestled, hunch-shouldered AM contemplation. For I could write 1000 words before I retire, right at effort’s cusp remaining, frustrated taglines pouring forth the constipated aether valve’s morsels; near these shallows the children know God. In unsubtle self-awareness, I still speak of God, push out fat-fueled trust in the heart of the cards, podium soliloquies, immaculate parking lot reception and high flying consumer tech; near these shallows the children know God. Be willing for God is there too, in the Arjuna asteroid, tattling tote bag, and righteous mind: profane places in which we must sidespin spit already known things, so the eager face might catch glimpse; near these shallows the children know God. Sing to me of God’s slight harms and casketed cohorts and I will write to you of our silent triumph above the wind where thinning twice-told tales wear well, And there is nothing to do but listen.