If there is a god, he might exist in the micro-alley in between blur circles on the rainy lens of a nebulous stare. She might sit on the rocky fringe of a brick wall, teetering and threatening wood splinters or skin penetration from that rusty nail bent 90 degrees and sprinkled with unhealthy looking orange rust speckles. It might swim DNA-shaped laps around the metaphysical cylinder-river that sits in between eye-to-eye implicit conversation. Maybe they’re entrapped in a dew drop slithering off the five millionth corn bead (counted from the North) in an indigenous South American countryside. Maybe He was a voracious conversationalist who ran into a bearded merchant 1500 years ago for a philosophical lecture or two. Maybe cadences battle for her hand in marriage when the resonance of Eastern musicians’ string plucking overwhelms peace of mind. Maybe it ended twice, and when the credits ran, they got sucked into a vacuum, jumbled up and confused, re written into a poem and crumbled up; thrown into the otherwise empty stomach of a chicken-wire garbage basket.

Anything more specific would be a pretentious description of my spiritual experience.