Sunday, February 1, 2015

A Second Rate Poker Hand

Dancing to music out of tune, finger-tips raw on the key-board, dog-eared and crisp.

Henry saw G-d and spirit as made up stuff, and dreams as film shorts, reruns, brain-waves run on celluloid, take it at face value he thought.    

Henry two years old visiting Navy Pier with his mother, she smoking and drinking with pals. Henry up and moving about, he falls off the pier into the mucky lake. Drowning, on his way out, he sees a light above at the end of a spiral-tunnel, anti-matter pulling him in. 

The baby wakes on the pier, pulled out of the muck, close to but not making it into after-life, retrieved and brought back to life.

Henry full of ingratitude, inarticulate at two, wanting to scold whoever pulled him out for cutting his trip to the abode of G-d short. He wanted what was up there, babies are captives of mothers bent-on protecting them. 

Humans cling to life, afraid of death inventing after-life, conjuring and stirring hidden voodoo, imagining allot, lost in a head-trip of self-hypnosis.  

Henry, anointed and plenty wet by the age of two had nada to bring back from his vision of the heavens.  

In old age Henry a half-ass Buddhist, unholy, for whom reincarnation was nonsense. 

Life full of pain, pain relief, then pain again. Ouroboros, mythical snake coiled and biting it's own tale, the circular grind in donkey time.         

Life as pain, the residues of delusion and schizophrenia, escape just a illusion. 

Henry thousands of miles away from Jesus, the Devil, the Moon, the abode of G-d, any of it. Assured it was a bunch of rot, pooh and who yah.

Life a second-rate poker hand.   

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