In my dream, I met God
Posted: February 27th, 2007, 12:34 pm
In my dream, I met God
at the corner where circular matter
intersects the connector to a
critical path.
He looked disturbed, angry,
frenzied, harried.
"It takes tremendous courage
to be yourself," he told me
in a manner consistent with
his penchant for stating
the obvious.
"Dignity and grace.
Decade after decade.
Dignity and grace.
Participate in it,"
He chanted as if I were
chosen to be privy to
sacred wisdom.
I nodded to agree,
but could not speak as my tongue
was no longer my tongue,
but was thick twine sutured
to my pallette yet my breath
tasted of licorice mint.
I reached for an embrace but
found my arms were no longer
my arms, but were tree bark
adhered to my torso with
a sticky substance which
reminded me I wanted to
ask a question about
permanence and purpose.
"You cannot ask and I cannot answer,"
He told me before I had a chance
to attempt to loosen the twine
from the roof of my mouth.
"Go now. Project your purpose
from womb to tomb. Amplify
and stomp a rhythm,"
He commanded
And when I awoke, my sheets
were drenched with sweat
and the the blood of sacrifice,
my legs were tied up with the covers
of nihilism and envy, my eyes
cried tears enough to create
the foam of high tide and
I became a larger presence,
too large to fit in the space
between where I wasn't
any more and where
I needed to be.
.
at the corner where circular matter
intersects the connector to a
critical path.
He looked disturbed, angry,
frenzied, harried.
"It takes tremendous courage
to be yourself," he told me
in a manner consistent with
his penchant for stating
the obvious.
"Dignity and grace.
Decade after decade.
Dignity and grace.
Participate in it,"
He chanted as if I were
chosen to be privy to
sacred wisdom.
I nodded to agree,
but could not speak as my tongue
was no longer my tongue,
but was thick twine sutured
to my pallette yet my breath
tasted of licorice mint.
I reached for an embrace but
found my arms were no longer
my arms, but were tree bark
adhered to my torso with
a sticky substance which
reminded me I wanted to
ask a question about
permanence and purpose.
"You cannot ask and I cannot answer,"
He told me before I had a chance
to attempt to loosen the twine
from the roof of my mouth.
"Go now. Project your purpose
from womb to tomb. Amplify
and stomp a rhythm,"
He commanded
And when I awoke, my sheets
were drenched with sweat
and the the blood of sacrifice,
my legs were tied up with the covers
of nihilism and envy, my eyes
cried tears enough to create
the foam of high tide and
I became a larger presence,
too large to fit in the space
between where I wasn't
any more and where
I needed to be.
.
