Must have been the rain. The first really good soaker this year. It was buckets of rain. And maybe that is what my dream was about. Words pouring down on the roof, running off the sidewalks, down the gutters. Black obsidian words. Like the black ink running out of a paper yarmulke that the funeral parlors give out and we all standing around an open grave with the black tears from our yarmulkes running down our cheeks.
I have seen my death, I drown in a black sea of words
Like a miracle the crape myrtle tree in front of my shack has bloomed so late in the year. Neighbor says it was the rain that did it finally. As if it was waiting for it.
I dreamed my memory rock had washed away in the storm.
"The day I was born my father sat down and cried
I had the mark "
I am not so much concerned with the mark of the beast
666 we say
Ronnie and Nancy had their house number changed because it was 666
There was a highway in New Mexico running through the Navajo reservation Route 666, the highway department changed the number. I am sure the Navajo could have cared less.
No I am not concerned with 666
It is the beast within me that concerns me
When men go looking for their devils in the world
I only have to look inside my own heart
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