a shy prayer to a god of dubious distinction

A Shy Prayer to a God of Dubious Distinction

Shy as a Panda Bear at a strip club. A dyslexic at a spelling bee. A rumination in a tub of exactitude. A dilemma in a four-star solution. A small bird in a vulture’s nest. A white lie on judgment day.

See-saws and buzz saws, motor-mouth declarations, the wild urge to break free. Settle down, settle in, settle up and away again. Like a comic strip.

If they don’t make sense to you and you don’t make sense to them, why is it you’re the one who is crazy? They didn’t break me at seven, what makes them think they can break me now? Watch their faces drop when I disappear from the holding tank.

Okay, those of you still reading, chances are you’re illegal. Here’s what needs doing: don’t rearrange the alphabet, trash it with your walking stick. Then down to business.

For every thorn there’s a rose, for every sweet dream a nightmare. For every breath drawn a deep silence. Come over here, put your ear to this sea conch. How about it, isn’t that the sound of the womb?

Scrap Timothy Leary, he was a drunk and an acid head.

Steer clear of Freud and his cocaine conclusions.

Follow that small child down the Safeway aisle, mismatched socks and laughing her way past the Wheaties.

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