Scattered Sun Prayer

We are all white light sparks thrown from the sun, or drifting little glowing worming watermelons or spoons or bottles of clear liquid or dildos or any manifest or unmanifest thing on this plane or any other. Cut, we go rocking, drifting however (as previously said), singing praise to our own sunny selves, always a star that’s a sun that’s a particular path squirmily or elsewise to the brainy mushy pulp matter. What is that you mean when you take, say, an ambulance, toss it into the glass chamber of your mind and perform your crude tests on it? Well it’s really not for me to decide you star, you angel, you phantasmal illusion of my desire and volo aquila and I too only an illusion of yours my deary fear (only not fear– fear of what?). Now don’t cry about green ink spilt across the face of the earth cause as wise ol Tom said all the world is green and pretend that you owe me nothing cause they’se serving fish in the jailhouse tonight. (Daddy O, that cat was smokin so lay some bread on me cuz you bet they was gonna screw the pooch.) Sew what? That’s what we do with our mouths closed and writing in blood across walls of nebuloid brick states and all that jazzy stuff. I think of stars of Irish Catholic sultry Virgo chicks dancing to seduce every man in the room (let her be loud and adulterous and shameless before all men), and stars of old men who drink Pabst Blue Ribbon and paint fine art in acrylics and oils and stars of nineteen-year-old chill ass kids from Cancun who hold their shit together even after a quart of Jameson to quietly walk themselves head high to vomit in the kitchen and stars who may notice, please, that I ain’t really talking about plurals but each beautifully unique flame cast from our very own Helios our natural god glory glory glory. Now take this circle squared and forget not your every move or the Aquarian current (as if you could) where we wander close to congregate, to gather for reals– no false start– and cast our light about each other. Remember this star drawn for love, for Tehuti’s hand that guides the pen, for broken beakers of chemical bonding and Quantum Impossible Probability Factor, for success, for death, for Isis, Apophis and Osiris chanting glory glory glory, I adore thee to every brightly fucking magnificent perfect center of a starry universe. Aum ha! Amen.