ash wednesday
in the morning strained light oil and ash brush your forehead. welcome. welcome to the wilderness of a wednesday in berkeley bikes and semis screaming down shattuck avenue. stop for a second. feel the concrete and the dirt underneath. we are all passing away at light speed. faster than the transmission of the digital neurons we are decomposing. daily lattes and pilates will not save us. when you stumbled into the kitchen an hour ago already late and you forgot what you had gone in there for what did you do? what do you remember about tuesday? the fight with your boss or the moment you glanced through the window and watched a mother tie her toddler’s shoe? remember you are dust particles flying around the wheels of the sedan turning up addison. i see your prayer in your clenched eyes. you will return to the beige fabric cubicle and the grocery list, but right now feel it. feel the earth’s crust crack a little. god is stretching toward us every second. no one knows what you will decide about lunch or jesus. i pray for your safe steps down to the platform. you will forget about the ash til you look in the neon lit cafe mirror, that’s what those glances were for. please don’t wash it off. dani gabriel
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August 2020
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