|Apr/May 2003 • Poetry|
Note to Jesus
Tell me—how prophetic
is it when you wake up two
nights in a row at 2:11? You, the
pulsing neon numbers, the monsters
in the hall closet, and my destiny.
The 2—what symbolism! Artemis and Apollo, man nooked into
woman, mother and child,
the unlonely number;
pleasing; one, but bigger
and better; parallel roads
into distinct but unique
universes. The Matrix.
Should I play these numbers on the
Lotto—box them for more profit,
look for luck on 2-11, throw salt
over my shoulder twice in neat
symmetrical twin lines?
Note to Jesus: my electronic tea leaves
tell that 1 of your 12 Disciples
had it all wrong. 3 is not the number.
2 and 11 mean everything, but I would
continue to monitor those nasty 6's.