Hello you swollen belly of a god, you laughing Buddha, you runny-nosed child squatting on the riverbank, you glad handed left handed swift handed no handed specter of all things possible. Hello. I’ve been missing you.
Hello yourself, my little wannabe. I like what you’ve done with the place.
You do not.
No, seriously, I do.
This indwelling wrestling match is rigged. My hands are cold. The day is warm. I’ll prepare for what’s coming with short phrases and long exhalations.
“Look,” I tell the Coauthor. “The blood red curtains are coming down.” With a loud click, the curtain rod falls.
The Coauthor shrugs. “They weren’t that bad.”
“Yeah, well. According to my intel on you, nothing’s that bad. You have terrible taste.”
“Ha!” a Chorus of Wayward Synapses laughs. “Coming from you, that’s rich.”
“You realize I have no mother, right? And no feeling left in my feet. And very little taste for anything but the fleeting pleasures of pigment, wine, and chocolate.”
“Of course I realize that,” the Outerness nods. “And that’s okay.”
“How can that be okay?” I yell, enraged and afraid. I take a swing at the Empty Space and hurt myself a little.
This is life betwixt and between. I’ve eaten all the daily specials I will ever eat, but sale items and outdated produce will tempt me until the end. And occasionally, I’ll give in.
“You think you know me, don’t you?” The sly Voice of the Spinning Universe asks. This question always emerges in the uncut version of my story.
“No! Absolutely not,” I raise my hands in denial and back away. “Why would you say something like that?
“I don’t know. Wishful thinking I suppose.” The Voice admits, dejected.
This breaks what little heart I have left.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Do you want me to pretend?”
“Yes, please.” The Voice of the Universe is soft. Wistful. “I’ll take anything that resembles connection.”
The undocumented, demented, dispossessed, the inmates, addicts, and the trodden down are all huddled on the floor of that lonesome valley. They stink to High Heaven. High Heaven throws the doors and windows open.
The table is set, the wine is poured, and a cool breeze sweetens the air. The wise among the broken strip to the bone and take their seats. Frivolity ensues.
I’ve not yet attained the wisdom of complete destitution, the defenseless salvation of Nothing, but the Coauthor allows me to play at the gates.
For this, I give thanks.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
For more uplifting, cheery poems and conversations just like this, you can order our book from the YOU KNOW WHO online and for a mere $13.99, you can torment your soul every day.
Short visits with an honest God 