Glass Houses

God can reach, from there to here I, however, can reach nowhere near His origin, his pyre. I tried logically in my domain. Well, the one I call mine again and again. This soul, this life, this thing called Me. This empty shell, no tears no pain to last and last, to forever be only God knows what. But me? I don’t think that is who I’ll see. Being subjected to this, of all things, a faceless, formless thing in a jar, reduced to only a name. A mass of flesh neural in scope connected to a computer, the word hope flashes and flashes again- -again. Suddenly a cool breeze where you are, as you feel her touch, you melt. You are lost in the depths of being- - floating, floating on gossamer wings. While somewhere in the background lightly spinning is the world of round. Two and two are four - - - and in the minute dimension of a quark we find pi r squared to fill a finite mind. Streams of consciousness are there only when the translator is near. Whether it be bits of volts--no volts. Whether it be soothing nerve jolts vibrating into a particular neuron. But God is on still another plane, one to put cooled optics to shame, gathering en masse the residue fled, of that last collapse of electronic pulse from that last spark of life which is fed seemingly, into mother earth. That which in truth is our reward, Which in my case was rather inane. As the janitor shut down my brain, When he unplugged the power cord. apr 2012 cgh