PONDERING ANN: VI

FEVER DREAM ON THE CORNER OF N. STATE

I was once approached by a grizzled crone, indefinitely stoned. Stoned

myself, I couldn’t help but welcome the gnarled lump of a man. Man

we were both toasted. Toasted

in the quiet of that stagnant August night, he delivered a sermon. Sermon

for the damned, perhaps. Perhaps 

I looked the part to listen. “Listen”,

he croaked: “You can never imagine a new face. Face

the facts, kid”. Kid

you not, I was so stoned I dreamt the nomadic soul before me was God. God

himself had returned to visit me on that still evening. Evening 

out my eyes, I shook God’s hand, and gave him my only dollar as an offering. Offering

his thanks, God and I parted ways, never to cross again. Again,

I was more baked than a twice-baked potato casserole from hell. Hell,

I reckon I really did meet god in some form. Form 

your own image of God, but good luck trying. Trying

to picture God, I still think of that molted man’s face.