I’ll soon be climbing into bed and joining what to me is just another level of my consciousness, and from there, before trusting myself over to an uncertainty that mine as well be my death, I’ll first, reach for the Kleenex, and, next, with a hand that mine as well be either, the hand of a resentful wife pulling panties that aren’t hers from her husband’s gym bag, or my mother’s hand reaching for a dish to break off my father, irritatingly set each one to my face. Lastly, I’ll blow the skin and mucus I really am into each one, then whip them like I’m angry at the air, splat-crack to snot. From all the blowing and throwing, and with my sinus cavities as dry and swollen as my hands after I’ve washed the dishes in the sink, I’ll start to forget that I am, and begin the long, short journey to realizing that every moment I’m alive, this is how I talk to my God, or Buddha, or that wisdom within I tell myself is an illusion as much as it isn’t one, that this is both, how I pray, and how I wish I could.