Monday, August 15, 2011

The Wind Horse Hesitates

The fox appeared to leap across the road, blonde in the street light's halogen glare. Firefly gelato. There was in all that field a bracken entrance, one that dissuaded followers. We know you, God, as we know ourselves. A big thank you to Sigmund Freud!

Where would one be without Ecclesiastes? The wind horse hesitated, even though it wasn't his job to judge the merits of each prayer. One can ask for money for any number of reasons, and can refuse to ask as well, and the Lord God made them all all. Ceramic flower pots in which a few scraggly Patiens bloom. Seeds can be tossed anywhere and are, so there.

Absolved of text, one begins at last to pray. Houses make for a strange confinement. Yet I too hope this will work. He talked to her often, despite the fact that she was a thousand miles away, and often she answered. How many Hindu Christs have I been?

With this ring, I thee bed. Nickels and dimes in the collection plate, whiskey on the old priest's breath. Shiva always reciprocates if you don't mind crazy weather and unexpected travel plans. Black cats, chess for kids, fathers falling asleep beside their sons. The old war is over, the new peace is finding its legs.

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