we were singers.
they sat us on two chairs,
facing one another.
we sang, at first in fear.
then, with spirit.
two came from behind
and poured gallons of paint on our heads.
First green, then grey.
we sang more strongly,
making a burbling sound
and getting used to the taste.
making deals, making deals.
I have to keep making deals.
I have looked through a dimensional glass
and I have been shown the Something.
it is All.
the antithesis of The Nothing.
but, I have to keep paying these prices,
making these deals,
shelling out these petty chunks of self
to the barbarous ones
what do they want with me
and why must I pay so much
to be assimilated, to be etherealized
through the conduit of that looking glass?
my son and I awoke one winter morning
to find the landscape covered in thick icy glare.
we looked at one another and smiled,
because the shallow ditch across the road from us
had become a bobsleigh run.
we dressed hurriedly and got out our skeleton sleds,
slapped them down in the ice trough, he in the lead.
we knew not to push off.
the ground was level anyway. and now,
the world, the globe, the earth began to move
we moved not, but all of the places in creation did.
such a ride. such a ride.