God has come to me in dreams, and then these dreams form a fellowship of images that haunt my waking life like little sprinkles of rain on a hot summer day. I realize that the Godship of Biblical sonnets holds my mind in place even as the lies feed the plastic lions in their encasements of doom. I reject the aspect of Christianity that seeks to bestow goodness on those who do not possess it, and in the theater of this invented goodness sits God again with the traipsing spirit of the Divine in retreat. I yearn for a kind of renewal that I find at the end of each yearning. The God of the Christians is the God of all Gods, and it is He who dances with me on the moon of endless midnights. He is good-humored and jolly, forgiving and speedy in his ministrations of forgiveness. I am His right-hand man, standing upon the wings that can only be seen by those who possess them. I am the sound of fury that rumbles in the storm of goodness.