Prophet

Mim's dream, turns out, isn't prophetic.
No one leans over my shoulder;
I am alone.
There is no magic pulling and pushing
of shots and scenes--
I am far away from anyone who can help in
miles and ability,
so I form few questions.
Whisper the story to me.
Only this time I do not feel desperate.
The only response, the lake water hitting the haddock wall
like laughter, mocking my inabilities
and, and, and
I am left wondering
since the WWJD campaign isn't a scripture reference,
is manipulating it blasphemy?
Am I too busy looking for my muse and eating him, too
so if  I am stuck I can regurgitate,
have him at hand,
look into the eternal open palm
where I find
the most comforting voodoo,
life lines to lead me to
story?
Use pictures.
Use a kid.
Show nothing and everything.
Don't forget to breathe. 
It's okay. It doesn't matter. Perfect.
Chew. Chew. Spit.
Be for real. The most honest.
Reach for what is even the tiniest bit alive.
When there is no vision, the people parish.
I mean perish.


Piecing from What It Is on Vimeo.