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A 1999 hallucination/optical illusion in verse, by Chris Wayan.
Across my street, a robed woman
stands in an open grave.
A man in orange vestments
spades dirt upon her head.
She's only a foot or two high,
so even here in Frisco,
I misdoubt she's human.
Sure looks like Mary, though.
Hail Mary, buried alive!

But not alive for long:
now he lights the blowtorch.
Mary is a sewerpipe,
and my sore eyes are

Eyes no longer young.
Purblind in this land
where old's a crime,
crippled's a crime,
feet in the grave's a crime.

Do all religions root in our demise?
We myopics constellate
Orion in the night,
or Mary in the grave,
or gods behind all,
or life beyond the pall:
Illusions we are built to build.
Fantasy-willed, fantasy-filled.

Ah, this sandy streetside grave,
full of Mary and old aftershave,
yawns as wide and toothily
as a masochist in dentistry--
for Mary, for you, for me.

And yet, my night-vision's true.
My dreams warn me of crashes,
(car and money, love and plane)
Dreams are no tease,
no honey-covered ashes,
but solid propolis, food of queens.
In our inns of molten blue
we bees are practical as glue.
If I a credulous mystic be,
So what? It works for me.


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