All of life reduces to a gesture,
to letter sounds, to a tilt of the head, to a whisper in a sentence with strange syntax.
Minimal things themselves so reduced to a piece of spirit that they can carry mind and meaning and disappear.
We come at last to nothing in the desperation of love.
The substance of culture and heaven.
And the shame that keeps us very still.
This is all the way of adolescent youth, young kids. Young toughs.
The delicate trying to be young toughs. Glorious, pretty criminals.
The innocent hurting the innocent. Infuriating the perfect.
The beloved outside reason and the reasonable just like the Godhead.
And just like the Godhead draining all your wealth away.
You have no appeal against this.
You and it and the spirit in it are no more than a sigh,
but that sigh is the most substantial substance there is.
As hard its fist against you, though it loved you and doesn't know why at that moment it hated
Artwork above- Barbara Kruger