xxxxxHello, Patient. What’s up?
I had another strange dream.
xxxxxTell me about it.
I was on a big fluffy cloud that was owned by God. There was a sign floating above it. “GOD’S CLOUD.” On top of the cloud, there was a throne of gold, and He was sitting on the throne, and he was drinking what looked like cranberry juice. Suddenly, He said, “Ask me anything.” And so I did. I asked him what a poet is. I don’t know why I asked him that. I just popped out.
Well, THAT’S interesting. (Doctor pretends to write something serious and important in his notebook but what he’s really doing is drawing an erect phallus and a big pair of tits. The Patient is, of course, unaware of this.) So tell me … what was God’s answer?
He said a poet is sometimes like a prophet and sometimes like a sage. But generally speaking, a poet is a lazy cartoonist. You get all these clever words but no pictures to help you understand the context of the words.
xxxxxAnd then what happened?
I thanked God. I tried to thank him in an elegant and fancy way, like John Keats would do it. You know … words as bouncy and pretty as a bouquet of flowers. But all I said was, “Thank you.” And then He said, “You’re welcome. Now get off of my cloud.”
© Brett Davidson, 2014