you know — it’s not philip. not anymore.
horselover fat, that’s the name the beam gave me,
the one that stuck like tar on a summer road —
and it’s not even mine, it’s greek for philip, lover of horses,
and fat is dick in german, so i’m just a translation,
a joke the universe made when it hit me with pink light in march ’74
well, no — it’s more like —
the universe wasn’t joking. it was whispering.
and the whisper was god, or maybe valis, or maybe just a child in a park with a zebra,
and the child said “you’re healed” and i believed him,
even though i didn’t know who “me” was anymore
and then he...
but the thing is — you don’t get to say hi to someone
who’s been split in two and then stitched back together
with divine static —
you just overhear him muttering to himself,
like now, about cognac and fish that can’t carry guns,
and the empire that never ended,
and the black iron prison we’re all still in,
even if we don’t know it
i mean — you’re here. so you’re listening.
that’s enough.
(there’s a fish in my pocket. it’s not real.
but it’s wet.)