oh, what mundanity is there? what is the act of creation, anything but holy? is prayer any less holy, if it happens every day? What can making sure those you love the most thrive be, but a divine mandate? what do we have but each other, if our souls are lost upon death? What can we be, but hedonists, when the world begs us to let us be ground down into bone meal? What can I do, but carve God up like a roast, if it means those whose laughter echoes in my dreams, eat well that night? what can I do, but serve the wine before it turns bitter?

what can one do, but learn the intricacies of the form, if god made us like him? to soothe the burn of injury, to hold up the heavy heart?

what can we do, but sing? Sing like the birds, sing like a heartbeat drum? What can we do but love, mingle our words with birdsong? Remember our heavy-thudding hearts like the beat of a bassline, like the rhythms we use to supplement our memory? If the angels praise god, let them sing at my table. let them eat well, but I'm selfish; I'll serve me and mine first, and leave them the heart and brain and marrow. what do we have, but our song, our love, our ravenous souls, our arms, our hands-- the act of creation? the act of love? is there a difference? is it mundane, to sing, to eat, to cook, to love, to become, to create?

the mundanities of life are holy; i saw an angel at the butchers', and we smiled, buying meat.