living in ignorance, a little while,
but, i believe, so i’m happy enough.
i find myself merging with my neighbor—
something in my story is off the cuff.

wondering how well i knew my parents,
should we have spent more time together?
the other side beckons, a land of gents—
promises of truth—tied to a tether.

i translate the deep; what does God speak?
a little interference makes him whole,
when we, his creations, embrace what’s meek,
and prove that unity, now, is our goal.

i go, in love with all things, to my master,
my loving equal on the far side of this.
i stave off damnation and disaster,
forming, on my lips, a most savory kiss,

but she’s living, in fear, of what happens
next, when, from isolation, i arrive,
and, like a rooster to a flock of hens,
i tell her i’ve never been more alive.

she knows this goes as long as it lasts,
and, i think, she’s worried about me,
since a spell, on me, is what she casts,
determined, as she is, to be free.

Nothing happening for me here, so i turn to you, and your lines  issued directly to His mind—the love we share is routine, and, as such, it feels right. i take on his familiar stance, and pounce upon my prey  the night, at first goes gently, and then, in the early hours of the morning, something goes amiss—someone needs my help, it seems. i monitor the things that i confide, waiting, quietly, for His reply.
To be the person that you love, i sustain myself on time and space, going a little, in my direction, before returning to you with what I find. i listen to the ticking of the clock—four beats a measure on a three second interval, and, through you, i achieve the sublime. I have some understanding, then, of eternal life, and the places we have been, and the places we are going to.

So it occurs to me that the voice of
my internal narrator, is, in fact,
trickling downstream—a source of love,
coming, as it were, from what i’ve backed,

this amplitude, across time, that we share.
I tune in with Him, in the bathtub,
waiting on a world that doesn’t care.
i proceed, therefore, to the rub—

Not asking, then, for an invitation: i’m already in heaven, in my mind; all that’s left for me now, is to realize my place in the hierarchy. this life is an abstract, a synopsis of our significance in the life to come. that’s not to say the little people can’t be happy—they are happy, when they believe in a higher power, when they believe in God, and atone, together, through intelligent events, allowing them to worship Him. But don’t I do the same? I simply atone, more often, on my own—i atone a little more, i think, to balance out the status that i embody—the goodness, in me, that I distribute, diligently, down the chain.

To hell, then, with my troubles and woe, neither of which would exist if and when life is taken as a whole. The woman i see is a reflection of me, and my relationship with the divine. If i represent this woman, the divine, then, would represent me, at one with the universe. And yet I engage the role that i play, sampling His experience, the better, I say, to be useful, and, naturally, to entertain.

Choose wisely, my petite, for i might call
upon you at any time—thinking, only,
of two points on a line, that, for all
intents and purposes, cross at infinity,

But feeling, now, albeit, temporarily,
a little down, blue as what produced no heir,
and imagines, to His chagrin, that a
family is what brings us closer to Him,

when He, in fact, chose a different path.
So I wonder, then, as God’s son, he must
be the happiest of all those in heaven:
these blues would contradict what He sussed:

I connect with my sweetheart—she represents the divine; this goes way beyond mortal desire: in fact, i suspect, it, for now, is entirely something else. When i think of her . . . oh, sweet nothings, do tell . . . but, i think, she represents Jesus, and, as such, I’m really talking to Him. It’s possible, I suppose, that she exists; that she lives in heaven, if not here, and I’m talking, at some point, to her. But to speak to her, I need to be aligned with Him, and so, I say, she, for me, is His extension. So I feel, don’t I, acute yearning for something beyond this life, and I find it, don’t I, by sending out His waves—the source, inside me, that leaves me looking for more, something more than a taste—I believe it’s His call.

living here, and thinking this much: no aches and pains in the next life—but does this yearning for God never abate? hurt people hurt people, go down Moses, oh, the things I suffer for a pair of blue eyes—lonely as shit in this capital of difference—a far cry, i think, from my heavenly home . . .
what sickness is this that gets my goat—making me angry at what doesn’t float my boat? Well it’s my problem, not theirs, that much I know, and yet, in the next life, i don’t imagine a world as isolated as this.
well, don’t hear my words and think, well, he needs to get out more, because, as it happens, i’ve been out there in more places than one—there’s nothing, in this life, to make things right—this place, as such, is as good as any . . .