I wanna ask the angel when
I wanna ask the angel when. Can we could we, will we here. But when. Tidings bid and peace promised as if it were only infinity unfurled. If this is real, then when. Learn to hope, it has been said. I would ask but then the angel would or maybe should ask it back, throw it back and ask it at me: yes and when? Or perhaps not that question which was mine, but instead another, a better one with a clearer answer and one that is not so abstract, a question where with the answer in the thump of organ tissue blood and flesh.
For an angel, if this was or there were an angel then it might be right at the end of that to ask. Don't assume the angel knows. This is God absurd. Don't assume the symbols from a story boiled down. Accept or anyway start at least with the weirdness of this. Something of the dada's been diluted now. But this is. God gives up: God no more: no more power and heaven empty, no glory, transcendence, no force or army no more. No more all in all and all and God's an accident here, no longer absolute but contingent now -- and didn't this used to be the insult for the enemies of YHWH? Your God is sleeping, crying, too small and human, away or indisposed, and now it's true and chosen. Now a choice. The insult embraced, weakness preferred. God here gives up being over all. He'd rather be a baby.
Baby born in slime, slick with fluid of birth and afterbirth and blood - I remember blood but it's later denied - mucus and crying, contingent, accident unto us, boy unto us and born, contingent to die and dying already. The face all squished: all babies alien. Misshapen head and features mushed at first. Here's a cord that has to be cut, umbilical, cut and clamped and knotted purple where a belly button will be, drying until it falls away.