Two stamps, three bills
my story doesn't fit
like a glove left behind
on the bus
wary of the last guy
at the last stop, still
angry fist with bell
thumb at Brighton ski shop
filled with bikes on sale
much weather, fewer words
"We need to get serious
"You are not fat."
still I don't care
what we get from there
just how we order
I finger the heart
splat in the dust
about the soft wine sweater—
"What if it spills?"
His followers called him Mahasamatman and said he was a god. He preferred
to drop the Maha- and the -atman, however, and called himself Sam. He never
claimed to be a god. But then, he never claimed not to be a god. Circum-
stances being what they were, neither admission could be of any benefit.
Silence, though, could. It was in the days of the rains that their prayers
went up, not from the fingering of knotted prayer cords or the spinning of
prayer wheels, but from the great pray-machine in the monastery of Ratri,
goddess of the Night. The high-frequency prayers were directed upward through
the atmosphere and out beyond it, passing into that golden cloud called the
Bridge of the Gods, which circles the entire world, is seen as a bronze
rainbow at night and is the place where the red sun becomes orange at midday.
Some of the monks doubted the orthodoxy of this prayer technique...
-- Roger Zelazny, "Lord of Light"
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