The room where I sleep is heavily
shaded by a very dark blind,
to block the light from the very
bright lamp on the corner of the street.

Rising from a deep and dreamless
sleep in the dark, before there is a who
to be a who.

A rectangle of light is drawn
in very thin lines
around the edges,
like a door, or a window?
What is that?
Where is this place?
Is it day, or is it night?
It is the moment that everyone knows.
A moment so small, it is no measure at all,
just before is, is, is.

What’ s going on?
Is it some kind of a trick?
An illusion?

Yes, yes, it is!


Everyone is in on it!
What a Game!

There is an ancient character in
everyone’s DNA that waits slumbering
in the memories of the Race
coded and etched in the bones
of the Ancestors,
waiting the curtain call.

In my particular bones he wears
a metal hat with horns sticking out
and creeps around with a cape
drawn round his face.

Loki, the thief,
the malady of the world.
Lost soul, shape shifter.
Liar from the beginning.

A real poser!

He is known by various names
and can be found skulking around
in everyone’s bones.

Whatever the shape that’s
Whatever the name.
Whatever tongue is spoken.
It is the same trick in many
forms, wearing a full wardrobe
of costumes, galore!

Most of the myths are a lie,
they picture a scary monster,
fiery red and covered with warts,
come to take you to hell.

But, mostly he, or she, looks
just like you and your
very best friends and family,
so that you won’t run away,
reveal the trick,
and you look the same to them.

The Trickster!
That’s one of his favorite names.

Whisperer of lies and a deceiver.

He lies his ass off,
to keep us contained and small.
separate and apart
and unaware of the All.
To keep the Glory to himself,
to revel and romp,
to dance in the meadow with a flute
and cavort with the nymphs!

But today I’m not going to fall
for the trick!

Have I got a surprise for him!

The Mr. Coffee rumbles to life,
the dark roasted smell enters my nose
and stirs memories like the milk in
the coffee that my wife starts to stir.
of other mornings much the same as this.
She opens the door to the fridge
and clinks the bottle of milk on the shelf.

The room takes a shape in the strong
morning light creeping round the edge of
the shade.

And I forget that it’s just a trick,
in the blink of an eye!

What if I wake in a different room?
Is it still the same trick?
Who am I, then?
Would I still be Me?