Thousand: Nine Hundred Forty-Eight

heard mention of cupcakes. Cream cheese frosting? Devil’s food?” The angel grinds his crystalline molars. “I,” says the angel, “I could. Get you. Cup. Get you cup.” “That sounds nice.” The angel steps backward into the campfire and is gone. Jesus looks again at the dead spider. With the now merely glowing stick Jesus pokes the spider’s side. It rocks stiffly, the legs frozen in curl. Jesus grunts dismissively and returns the stick to the flame. Bearing a plastic-wrapped cardboard tray the angel reappears. “Your cupcakes, lord,” he says, dropping them on the ground. “Those are muffins,” Jesus says. “But

Thousand: Nine Hundred Forty-Seven

Wait.” Jesus bites his lip. “Explain for me, could you, explain for me my duties in this. Matter. And. No, hang on, before you get started, be sure to include what’s in it for me.” The angel’s scowl darkens. “You’re telling me, even though you are God himself, you haven’t the power to save this creature! You haven’t the grace, the mercy to bring back from the brink of extinction the leprechaun race?” Jesus scratches his bearded cheek. “You’re finished? That’s it? I missed the part where you offer cupcakes?” “You’d do it for cupcakes!” “Cupcakes,” says Jesus, nodding. “I

Thousand: Nine Hundred Forty-Six

Jesus scoots over a little so the bundle is no longer between him and the fire. The angel folds his arms across his golden chest; his great white wings spread and rustle. Leaning forward, Jesus snatches up a burning brand and applies the flame to the lower feathers. The angel scowls. “Don’t do that.” “What’s the difference? Looks like you’re good and fire proof.” “The leprechaun,” says the angel. “The leper pawn,” sasses the one newly returned to life. When the angel continues to stand where he’s planted, Jesus shrugs. “What’ve you got for me?” “Your duty.” “My? Uh. Yeah.

Thousand: Nine Hundred Forty-Five

steps out of the fire, stands over the man sitting cross-legged in the dust. “What do you want?” Jesus says, not looking up. The angel lowers a bundle to the ground and unfolds the cloth. Inside the bundle lies a spider the size of a cooking pot, dead on its back, legs bent in like burnt sticks. “The last leprechaun,” the angel intones, waving a hand over the corpse. “That’s not a leprechaun.” “That’s what a leprechaun looks like when it has starved to death.” “Bullshit.” “I have brought the last leprechaun to you, my lord. You have the power.”

Thousand: Nine Hundred Forty-Four

about. But, you know, who doesn’t? He stirs the coals with a stick, and a swirl of golden sparks dances up from the circle of stones. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, he thinks irrelevantly. I’ve been a king more than once. I’ve been a mendicant, a pauper, a doctor, a thief, a blacksmith, and a farmer. A slave. More than once. He covers a yawn, then rubs his face. Lots more than once. Some lives I even remember the other lives. That’s nice, he thinks. But there’s something to be said for forgetting. Nearby a camel snorts. An angel

Thousand: Nine Hundred Forty-Three

set them on fire. If you don’t, he’ll think you don’t like him. Jesus is sitting by a campfire, recovering from his latest resurrection. He’s been burnt to death several times. The first time he returned to life he would cringe whenever he approached a fire, but then he drowned. After that fire wasn’t a bother. He fingers his neck, which was broken by one of the guards of the ancient city. It’s okay now, he supposes, and turns his head carefully from side to side to make sure. Smooth, not even a crackle. Sometimes he wonders what it’s all

Thousand: Nine Hundred Forty-Two

done, who haven’t walked a mile in your moccasins, who haven’t drunk the milk of your tits, who haven’t swooned appropriately in long dry meetings, well, for them empathy can be a challenge. They just don’t understand. You think you’ve signed the right contracts, kicked back cash money to the right bureaucrat, danced and danced and danced and danced and danced until the convulsions of transcendental exhaustion have you turning jaguar, but it’s a bust. That’s how everything has been constructed. Shoddy solder, weak glue, frayed cord. Your dreams will fall apart on you. If God gives you purple daisies,

Thousand: Nine Hundred Forty-One

I tell the angel. “Take it in good health. Go far with it. Do with it exactly what needs doing.” I continue pronouncing these vacuous fragments of advice for several thousand years or whatever, all alone. It’s hard to be alone, even if you contain multitudes. It’s hard to know everything, even if everything was built into you by creation, which took place at the same time. Nothing’s easy. Not even being easy is easy. You have to make it look easy, but that can be tricky, because people can be suspicious, although, for those who haven’t done what you’ve

Thousand: Nine Hundred Forty

were to take a body, where would you go?” “I don’t know,” I say. There are so many places. Places where nobody will pinch your cheek. Places where everybody’s nice. But would any of those places need what I have to teach? What do I have to teach? Give the angel the shift. If you cease to exist, so what? Ceasing to exist is a standard product of existence. Being conscious of existing is what? Unusual? Perhaps I should throw myself into the dream. In the dream bodies are always available, no special arrangements necessary, no permissions. “Take the shift,”

Thousand: Nine Hundred Thirty-Nine

Tears give way to a ferocious grin. Grin gives way to puzzlement. The hands all leave off their distractions and leap to the head, stopping it on a face of inner contemplation and peace. Eyes half-lidded, mild smile, unlined brow, round cheeks. The lips part and in a humble tone the angel says, “Might you allow me to borrow the transdimensional shift?” Oh. “That’s a big favor to ask,” I say. “You know what it means to me?” “I will owe you,” the angel says. “But what do you need it for? There are places barred to you?” “If you

Two 922s

Oops. I seem to have posted two 922s. I wrote while on the road, that’s my excuse. So tomorrow I will post 939. I may renumber the posts. I also note that I ended a recent post with a “the” only to begin the next day’s post with a “the”, thus if one were to read the posts in proper sequence one would read “blah blah blah the the blah blah”. Tsk. It’s been ages since I asked anyone if they had any thoughts they wanted to share. Readers? Two months until the final words. Should we have a wrap party?

Thousand: Nine Hundred Thirty-Seven

The angel’s hands spread fans, blossom full of colors, squeeze down into green stones. A left courts a right with dainty flutters. The right, bashful, dips and hides. Another left pursues a right with hungry fury, catching and gnawing on the frightened wrist. Three rights layer one upon the next, the bottom’s slightest twitch telegraphing up the stack. The head that has swallowed all the other heads now opens to receive an eight-toed food, leg follows up to the knee where the jaws clack shut. The head resumes its slow revolution, the eating face giving way to one dropping tears.

Thousand: Nine Hundred Thirty-Six

ask the angel. “I didn’t pass it, did I?” The last kiss proves to be not just open-mouthed but consuming. The angel swallows the head right up. Then he pops head after head into the open mouth. “I need to tolerate pain. That wasn’t even big pain. Not like getting a leg sawed off or having nails pounded into your hands. If I’m going to be wandering around telling truths I have to be ready to. I have to be. I.” Was I really thinking my teachings would be so easily accepted? I just need to reach the right people.

Thousand: Nine Hundred Thirty-Five

not if I have all time to hide in. You can’t hurt me. That’s not me. That is your own face, angel. Play with it as you wish. The angel yanks the face from the wall by the bit of skin caught in the pinch, gives the face two brisk shakes, then reaffixes it to the blank head on the floor. The eyes blink. The angel picks up the head and raises it to the lips of its other heads, its other faces, each sharing a kiss with the head and its freshly recovered lips. “Was that a test?” I

Thousand: Nine Hundred Thirty-Four

Fuck. Why won’t you listen to me? Why won’t you stop! I know pain is bad. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it being suffered. Stop! Oh oh ooh. A pinch is just a pinch. It’s just a bit of skin. Maybe some muscle’s caught. You can live without a cheek. It’s not even my face then is it it’s just a face a mask nothing behind it the wall that’s all that’s behind it the wall my body but so little of my body spread through ow spread ow through time time I have all time you can’t hurt me

Thousand: Nine Hundred Thirty-Three

clench, I begin to moan. The pinch tightens again. Ah, pain. Yes. This is what pain is like. It’s a valid lesson. If I am to incarnate I need to preview pain as well as pleasure, distress as much as delight. But, you know, angel, you know, uh. Ow. You can stop now. I’ve got the idea. This hurts. You know this hurts, don’t you? Surely if you keep this up, you will do some damage. Ow! Stop it. Stop! You can stop now. Please. Please stop now. Please stop. Oh please. Please stop. Ow. Oh God oh. Stop! Stop!

Thousand: Nine Hundred Thirty-Two

had a face before. Of all the parts that make me up, across billions of alternate planes, has there never been a face? Two eyes, a nose, a mouth? Does it matter? Let me enjoy this one. I like to smile. I like to scowl. I blow out the lips, I suck them in. I like rolling these eyes, flaring these nostrils, raising these eyebrows. The angel tickles my nose with a pink feather and I sneeze. The angel scratches my chin and I purr. The angel pinches my cheek. Ow! The pinch tightens. My brow draws in, my teeth

Thousand: Nine Hundred Thirty-One

all scowl. On the face the angel pressed to the wall I create a scowl. The angel’s head turns and the next face looks sullen. With this new face I go sullen. The angel presents a soft smile. I feel it, a soft smile. It feels like my smile. It’s nice. I like it. The angel laughs. I laugh. Hilarious! The angel put up a face on my wall, in the chamber carved within the body of this comet I ride, I am. The angel put up a face. Is it mine? The angel gave me a face. I’ve never

Thousand: Nine Hundred Thirty

hand. One bald head, crown down, spins on a middle finger. Another rolls chin over peak up an arm to the shoulder. When it rolls back down, the hand cradles it. Another hand swings in and unfastens the face from the head, presses it to the wall like a suction cup. “Open these eyes,” the angel says. So I blink them. The angel looks like a lump of coal. I blink again. The angel looks like a diamond screaming. I blink again. The head on top of the angel’s single neck turns like a carousel. The face passing now is

Thousand: Nine Hundred Twenty-Nine

are ready to tell all. To whom?” “To everybody,” I say, hearing how impossible that is. “Maybe,” I try again, “maybe just to the right person. Or people.” “The right person or the right people,” the angel echoes and I hear how ridiculous that sounds, too. Everybody has something to learn. “I still think it’s a good idea. If I try. If I had a body, one that could talk. One that.” I don’t know. “One that could show. One that could.” I don’t know what to say next. The angel is juggling its heads, passing them from hand to