A few weeks ago, I dreamt that I was standing at the side of the road, watching two gray foxes, especially luminous. They were roaming together, near the brush, one after the other, on the other side. Now, allow me to introduce you to My God.
My God is, first and foremost, visionary. This is an all-seeing God. The tides that sweep wetness and life into me, the baptismal rain, humid beneath the veil, the harvest, the hoarding, and the trance of cold Christmas. This is all a part of the vision. A policy of cycles is practiced here. Circles. God has me curling. And My God is wayward. A hunter God. Red-shouldered wings and a dark body. The predator God is sharp, sturdy, and graceful. Never a God to stay near you. Instead, I am married to the boot heels of My God, and I willfully follow where Heaven prevails. Heaven provides. From the sun, the God-eye, some luck pours through each morning. Both dawns shine and invite true magic, and blue midnight is mother, is a cloak and a cure. This policy of cycles. And every ritual act is new, and this God will never die. This is a beast of potential, eternally young, full of guts. Never the same as yesterday. God of rebirth, most extraordinary. A God, everything-but-ordinary. A rare, beautiful and most persistent God-of-All-Things. Magnanimous warrior. The lone star.
It's no coincidence, my polarity to whomever. I do only as I am instructed, even as I'm driven down a hole. The gift of the charmer is thrifty and indirect, like a tramp. Slow-growing, panoramic. My God is a God of Tomorrow, and for one to doubt my theatre would be an epic misfortune. God-fearing is tasteless. The trickster, the trickster, the idiot, the fool. The initiation. The invocation. The rite of passage. Walking a Right. Act with playful purpose. It was meant to be.