so many selves (so many fiends and gods

each greedier than every) is a man

(so easily one in another hides;

yet man can, being all, escape from none)

so huge a tumult is the simplest wish;

so pitiless a massacre the hope

most innocent (so deep’s the mind of flesh

and so awake what waking calls asleep)

so never is most lonely man alone

(his briefest breathing lives some planet’s year,

his longest life’s a heartbeat of some sun;

his least unmotion roams the youngest star)

- how should a fool who calls him “I” presume

to comprehend not numerable whom?

                                                   e.e.cummings

How did I come here?  Why was I brought/sent/come here?  I, five-thousand years old, drive down Canada Way in a beat up old wrent-a-wreck with the forces of evil attempting entry into the car

Whoomp.  I think I took one out there.

My hair turns white as I drive.  I become my ancient self, hair by hair, and wrinkle by wrinkle, The Ancient of Days  Other drivers don’t notice me; on they go oblivious to the impossible transformation occurring in the ten year old out of date, out of style, almost out of gas white with rust spots and dents leper car cavernous nothing, while inside unlike two thousand years before always goddam becoming man.

Today man becomes God.

I don’t know where I’m going.

Banging in the trunk.  Can somebody be back there?  I can’t remember.

(It’s your turn man.)

(Someone has to be God.)

Not me.

(It’s your turn.)

I can’t be God.  I’m not ready.

(You never will.  Be ready.)

(It’s your turn, man.)

I stop at a red light.  The guy in back of me gets out of his car and starts walking towards me.  The light turns.  I drive on.

Why me?

(Why not you?  Why good goddam not YOU?)

YOU be God.

(It is/you are/were/now/it is your turn.)

The guy behind me is still there.  I have to stop at the next light.  He pulls up behind me , gets out and walks towards me again.  I open my door on him hard and he falls backwards arms flailing.  The light changes.  I drive on.