IN WHICH SHE TAKES A NAP / IRA WILE

God’s asleep on the couch, and I don’t wanna wake her.

She left the show early tonight, stuck around for my bit, but left before some of the others did theirs. Normally I’d hate this. I think it’s kinda crass.

God’s all curled up on my new-ish couch (the one I traded Magic cards for) with Saladin up against her like a dock. He’s awake, as cats and dragons always are, but it’s moot. He’s not movin’ either.

God’s a blonde today, kinda weird. She’s rarely ever blonde. And it’s 2-3 colors of blonde, too. Not long, not short. Looks like a high school 1985 blonde. hunh.
She’s tall today too, looks like. Wonder what world she was in that she came back to me as a tall blonde with a beauty-school hairdo. None of that lasts long round here.
Uncovered, she’s in that long grey winter skirt that I love. Curled up, it cocoons her legs, hides her feet up in it. Makes it look like she’s sleeping in a soft wooly bag.
When I came in I turned off the TV and moved to touch her, greet her, and she smelled like lavender and curry. A very strange, heady combo, and it was all I could do to just kneel there and drink her in, hypnotized by the impossible, enraptured by the neverwhens of her and me.

God hums in her sleep.
Slightly, barely, and not in a wheeze, or even that cute lil snore that girls have. God has a chorus that escapes her when her eyes close, when she rests. It’s not enough to keep yeh awake, but it’s enough to cock yer head a bit to catch a bit more if you get a snippet.
I asked her about it once, and she told me that it’s where morning clouds come from. That they’re not made of water and pollution, but of the shards of dreams that have escaped her since creation. It’s all of the ideas without roosts, the hugs waiting to happen, and the tears to come as well.
It’s how she gets things to everyone at once: a self-creating poetry that’s as ridiculous as it is efficient.
Not only are we all satellites of her, as the creator, but we’re satellite dishes as well.

Om mani padme hum, baby.

Ira Wile was born in Texas a bit too long ago for him to be able to casually ignore.  He currently lives in the uncanny burg of Morgantown, West Virginia with his two cats, Sarajevo and Giza, and his truck, Sif.   He loves hard, lives relatively free, and sings when he pleases, but if you ask him what he does, he’ll tell you he’s a bard – with the best friends karma can buy. He’s been a rodeo clown, a taxi driver, a Radio DJ, the owner of a comic-book store, and Santa Claus more than once, but not a wolf.