Let the fingers drum holographic

Dream not of the indigo

children, beware of the piercing

curb permafrost. You are, as

they said once, invincible.

Sleep not for the iguana,

nor the heron in its nest.

Feel not for Nirvana, instead

let your soul find Allah. He is only

young himself, catching fire-

flies. But let it not be for fame--

instead sincerity. Let the cool

fire burn you in the grocery

store, let it take you away

when you’re sitting in the

laundromat, let the fingers

drum holographic but remember

it all leads

back to God.

God is pitching a fit in the

cereal aisle, while his mother

bargains for discount fish

at the meat counter. God can’t

wait for the day when he

would be could be should be

found in this once in a lifetime
 game of hide-and

-seek. We found
Him before,

remember? On a mountain

in Israel, in the caves of Arabia,

in the jungles of India,  the concrete
of Berlin, New York, Liverpool, Los Angeles,

the place home or hospital
where you were born.

If you want some advice, sleep.

Dream not for the jaguar who

eats the sun, but instead, the

tar that preys on insects, fighting

for the sacred territory of

oxygen air-sacs

black

and shriveled.

And creation was created,

the unknown known.

At least, for awhile.
But let it be known that

the known becomes undone

just like shoestrings, and our

shoes, our colossally expensive

shoes, are untied.