Meek Meow: The Physics of Broken Prayers Returning as Light
When fragments of grief, kindness, and quantum thought collide in the space between logic and divine static
( Introduction )
Here, incompleteness becomes the only whole truth. "Meek Meow" reveals that prayers work best when broken, that sentences find God precisely where they fail to finish, that "That's t..." contains more wisdom than any completed thought. This theatrical meditation proves that cats have been enlightened all along—their six-fold mantra unlocking what human language cannot reach. Watch as photosynthesis continues after death because death never understood photosynthesis anyway. Witness Grammy becoming grime as the highest form of resurrection, where decomposition is just another word for ascension. In this cosmic equation, giving your sandwich to a pigeon who resembles your dead uncle IS the theory of everything, purple-tasting words ARE the real physics, and the children running toward dangerous helicopters know what we've forgotten: that salvation comes disguised as dust storms. The vacuum of space carries sound after all—not despite being empty, but because emptiness is love's preferred acoustics.
( The Story )
Love makes kindness, so kindness has to make something else—maybe molecules doing the cha-cha between heartbeats? (Yesterday I gave my sandwich to a pigeon who looked like my dead uncle.) But we get lost trying to math our feelings, solving for X when X keeps morphing into why the hell. Days slide by like botched experiments. Each morning we test if honor and trust can be our anthem, our cells humming offkey beneath everything. The scientific method says: stay put = data collection (like catching invisible butterflies with torn nets). Run from grief = contaminated results, footprints everywhere. But here's the flip—some unmeasurable future awakening is coming BECAUSE we can't time it. Can't cage it in calendars.
My back's to the cards. Those paper fortune-tellers lined up like tiny soldiers. Not reading futures that already happened yesterday, that are happening right now in some other kitchen where another me faces them head-on. When we finally drop our boxing gloves—these stupid fists, these flowers that forgot blooming—something clicks. Giving up resistance makes us stronger than holding tight. Like water that goes around every rock but still carves the Grand Canyon. Be calm in Soul and Mind, the books say all serious. Then the universe butts in: Meek meow ... meek meow ... meek meow ... meek meow ... meek meow ... meek meow ...
Makes zero sense till it makes ALL the sense. Cat buddha teaching us submission has its own power trip. (The meows taste purple in my mouth.) Space rockets go up by pushing down—Newton getting freaky with metaphysics. Sun Shots stab our eyes like golden needles, blinding us into seeing. Those light fuzzy owl babies keeping eyes shut see more than grown owls with 20/20—before we can see it God of Goodness creates it. Creation first, perception second. Textbooks got their chronology backwards.
Deep earth calling: Holler from a cave amongst mysterious shadows. The echo bounces back as LIGHT. Sound becoming brightness in the cave's weird chemistry. Physics calls bullshit but physics never figured in that chance inflation of an elder hand holding another elder hand—touch making atoms spread out, love fattening up the universe. Build with invisible bricks then. Spiral like drunk DNA. Heading toward that pink and orange sky that weather guys say CANNOT exist here, now, but—Hi—god's being casual again.
Urgency wrapped in hunger: Fill that boy up with just arrived food so that he doesn't die while we are holding him. Biology screams: calories in, death out. Brutal survival math. But even this goes sideways cause the way they do political leadership makes us want to go away to—Ahh Eeeee—where words just break. Crack like bones that heal wrong. Those sounds just fall out. Scarcity. Deprivation. Makes us want to scream and throw up around worrying heads. Puke halos. Nausea crowns.
Meanwhile back at the ranch of weird: Police say the hammock is covered with Grammy—and grimy—Grammy IS grime? Grandma IS dirt? (oh wait we all become dirt anyway) (She knitted blankets for strangers' graves.) That's it. That's it. That's t—sentence cuts itself off cause finishing would be lying. Middle-eye is boring. Centered vision only sees straight when everything spirals. I am boring when I forget They are irresistible. When I mistake normal for everything. Be that go. Anyway. Logic waves white flag made of brain tissue.
Memory cracks into pieces: We took one look beside your Asking Why—that wrecking ball punctuation—and that was the end of my partnership with photosynthesis. Plants show us questions murder connection. Sometimes knowing kills the real knowing. But things need to die for other things to live so the beginning of U changed my life. Letters curve holding meaning. You contains Universe. Understanding starts with standing under mystery's weight.
Human cruelty now is never more obvious than when we're touching moving pictures of heaven. Swiping through paradise while actual paradise rots outside. We crave for more—junkies in nice clothes. Visions flow through to the very core essence, water through a sieve keeping only the good bits. But knowing exactly what a soul is requires hard work. Forty hours minimum. Overtime on weekends. Punching heaven's timeclock. They look at our wonders and that was the end of today's continuum. Time clocks out, beat.
Language trips over itself: Braille Will be never ore—future blindness makes metal not sight—and then you called me with a quiet and fragile voice. That was the afternoon that Everybody thought I was so strong. Me, performing stability while my internal rivers flowed backwards. After their other side broke down the doors (which side is OTHER when we're all strangers in our own houses?) coming back to your sucking arms home place where No one can lift a damn thing Any more it seems. Gravity gets heavier the more you need to lift.
Party dressed in confusion: Gray wedding. Joy mixed with sad till you can't separate them. It ought to bring us Your Will, that god-thing we keep trying to figure out. Breathe on to us song sung from a cell of a hot and sunny desert ruin prison. Walls make songs more valuable. Heirs to kings and queens give instructions—charts, facts, and figurative pictures dividing blank pages in a Book of Love. Spreadsheets of feeling. Pie charts of hugs.
Body talks desperate: Desperate, lay your head down. Give up already. Your mother's smile has more sense than many living for dynasty. Her curved lip beats genetics. Their shorts are long (huh?). His see-through pants is scary (we're all made of secrets). You can bet that words will disappoint you. But we keep betting. Gambling addicts at the conversation casino.
Grand finale tornado: When the children run towards the helicopter lowering and blowing blinding dust in all directions—innocence rushing toward danger bringing rescue bringing danger. Snake eating its tail. Complete heat lurks in your iris. Fever in the seeing-ball. Resolutions of all the fruitless subjects stay unresolved. That's the only real resolution.
Fragments gonna fragment. Like light hitting a prism, each piece has all colors. Logic breaks and breaking shows what it really was. The spiritual floats upside-down—astronaut in a flooded church where meek meow echoes through space rockets. Sound travels in vacuum when vacuum's stuffed with love, kindness, and our gorgeous need to stay lost.
