Lost & Found – Lord’s Prayer Redux

Our Mother, who art in Haida Gwaii and Venice and Montreal, who art walking alone on a midnight coastline, who art in Stonehenge and that greasy-spoon breakfast spot on Commercial Drive

Hallowed be thy name, and hallowed be the hip upon which thou swingest thy babbling infant, and the beautiful creases around thine eyes, and thy golden tooth that flasheth in the morning sun

Thy will be done, thy laundry be done, thy Chinese takeout be done and eaten with thy brown-eyed lover in the backseat of thy Toyota Corolla

In earth as it is in Heaven and in Hell (which is to say, all-of-apiece)

Give us this day our daily bread, our Darjeeling and falafels, our cheap red wine, our honky-tonk and crème brûlée, our golden trumpets and honey-coloured skin, our licorice sticks and marching bands, our Friday night black-and-white horror flicks, our jukeboxes and Japanese gardens dripping with rain, our cotton underthings drying on the line, our sleeping-late teasing, our smoked meat on rye, our campfire stories, our bedroom curtains blowing dancing in a ghostly breeze blowing off the lake

And forgive us our greed and our lies, our pyramid marketing systems and seven-step programs, our tawdry self-interest and reality television, our creepy misogyny, our SUVs, our torture chambers and police states, our megaton atomic warheads

As we forgive Stockwell Day and those who broadcast Nickelback on public airwaves (but not really)

And lead us not into buying ?Artist-styled Lofts? on the third floor of gated communities, or designer clothing from the Punk department of Old Navy, exchanging cheap gossip, voting Conservative, answering our cellphones at theatres and funerals, saying ?Get a job,? confusing luck with honour, or turning away, turning away, turning away

But deliver us from delusions of every kind

For thine is the cherry-red lips and the silver-strapped sandals, the fury of the tempest, the pull of the moon, the labyrinth of the womb, the ancient memories of feathers and teeth, the river in a season of flood, the salty-sweet skin, the intuition and the rounded belly, the fingers that pluck the cosmic harp, the hands that change the Eternal Diaper, the taste of blood, the laughter floating up from wrought-iron balconies, the lamb curry with sweet potatoes simmering on the stove, the bare feet dangling, the secret smile, the well-earned wrinkles

The Power, and the Joy, and the Glory,

For ever and ever. Amen.

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