Vision is sight. If the eyes see it, then it is there; go ahead and eat it. A pizza is a pizza is a pizza. Or, you can touch her, if she says it is okay and you can find her in the dark.

Eyeballs sit in the head, two of them, but you see only one world. The image on the back of the eyeball is upside down, but the world is right side up. Therefore, the real world is actually upside down; and there probably are more than one of them. Certainly, someone's red is actually somebody elses blue. It's just that the words get aberrated.

Magic vibrations come into the eyeballs at the speed of light, wave things, and they smack into microscopic cells that tell you if she is smiling or reaching for her machete. Also, if you get kicked by a camel in the brain, you might see illusions or shadows or next to nothing, even when your eyeballs are lovely.

Behind the head there are no eyes. No eyes on the top of the head. No eyes at the end of your toes. No eyes on your butt.

When you blink, you are blind. When it's dark, you are blind.

Vision works great unless you are daydreaming and then you rear end the truck and it's your fault for not looking where you should. When one of you is self absorbing, none of the rest of you can see. You are blind when you are hunched over your passions.

The world disappears when you day dream, even when the eyes are turned on.

You cannot be visionary and See.

"Time's up. Pass your papers forward."

"You have fifteen minutes of free time to check your mail, after which you will assemble outside for the marathon."

Dear Mr. Detroit, Optometric Potential First Class:

Congratulations! The Sumerian Poets Society is proud to announce that your request for membership is granted. As Sumerian Poets we worship the triple muse, Goddess of poetry and love; war angel, and the cold heart of reason in darkness. She is the sun-moon, giver and taker of light, weight lifter and wet nurse, castrator and healer, red wine and white milk.

In accordance with Sumerian Law, we registered you with the selective service. Sumerian Law proclaims that in the event of another Holy War, poets are to be drafted first so that great sonnets can be written from the front lines.

Welcome, poet.

Sincerely, Sumerian Poet Society President,

Sadaya of Sumeria

Guess what, Tim. I'm in jail. No kidding. I have on a black and white zebra uniform and the doors and windows have bars on them. I have a headache, too; like I got hit in the face with a canon ball, Lunch comes in an aluminum dog dish. It's brown colored and soupy. This must be a prison, right? Except, I don't remember how I got here.

My memories are irrational- an escalator to the toilet, thirteen virgins in a pickup truck, talking dog heads growing on palm trees. It started when I didn't get enough sleep the night before. The test was easy, but then we had to run a marathon through Sumeria. The streets are dust rivers. Heat mixes with flying dirt and sweat. We had to run in bare feet. My toes are blistered. No wonder I can't stand up. The faculty rode great black horses and they had rawhide whips. If we stopped, we got lashed and cursed.

They did feed us. Every five miles was a welcome wagon. We got cold Cream of Wheat in warm spit with grit. But no water. No juice. No beer. Stop complaining, get up, run, run, run in the dust with bloody feet, run, run.

Then there was a finish line on the back of a wagon, but when we got close, they moved the wagon farther away. Some of the Potentials cried and begged to be shot (so they shot them), a few looked dead from dirt inhalation, the rest of us crawled through the sweltering dust, choking and gagging. I guess the idea is that you ran the marathon until you died, one way or another. Then your race was over and they could rent the dorm rooms to the next crop of visionaries.

About two minutes before I figured dying would be okay- no more Auto Saints Days, Praise the Lord, Nergal declared the race over. Nobody finished again this year.

But they were so proud of us! All the priests in the Holy Green Robes were there, the janitor's wife Jane came, reporters from the Sumerian News, a nest of Army Ants. All the important people were there; slapping our dusty butts, saying "Wasn't it wonderful only thirteen Potentials died this year. Good work, survivors! Have a cold drink.

Have a drink of icy cold, thirst quenching Sumerian Soma Water. It tasted like musty milk; minor fights broke out over the gallon jugs. Then I saw God. No kidding, Tim. There He was, wearing a Speedo thong and a Pepsi Cola T-shirt. He had a pot belly and he was a white guy with a southern accent. Next thing I remember is my left arm detached from my torso and put itself around a palm tree filled with dog heads that talked. "You are in my personal space, back away slowly and toss me a dog biscuit." Then I saw God leave with the janitor's wife, Jane.

There was an eagle on a dead tree limb floating in space. The eagle wore a beige wig. He had blue searchlight eyes. We were searching, too. Someone said we were looking for her and I thought it must be Jane, but no, Jane was with God. I looked in the toilet for a while. It was milky puke colored and it made me feel better, more clear headed. Then we were in the gym chapel near the Sacred Taxi Shrine. Alaster said "Come Potentials, see the Holy Relics."

Then I saw her float past, the pale ghost woman with the rowan berry lips. My hips twitched. I drooled. She had jet black hair, green disco eyes. It was Sibyl. But they called her Persephone, and then she went down, down, or I was going up, up, and then gone, she was gone.

The Holy Relics were stored in a casket. Alaster reached in and pulled out the Holy Umbilical Cord, the link between man and his Savior. It was the Holy Neck Tie (The Rag of Ages Clung to Thee, Amen). Alaster then held aloft the Holy Book, Webster's Unabridged. What is committed to language is believed, becomes the truth to die for, and cannot be abridged again. Then he showed us the Holy Vegetable, an ear of corn, the eatable relic, symbol of rebirth and all things corny. Next we were shown a close up image of God. It was a mirror. We saw our own faces and then we knew what we had always suspected.

Next we viewed the Holy fragrances, Holy Mouthwash, Holy Underarm Spray, Holy Strawberry Flavored Vaginal Cream. Holy Cow, there are too many to mention.

Finally, we were shown a life size Holy Tourist with three cameras around its fat neck. It had Bermuda shorts and flipflop sandals. When you pulled a cord on its back it said the same thing over and over again. Alaster put his arm around the Holy Tourist and prayed:

"All the world shall be mine to record and play back, and play back, and play back, and yet I shall never experience life itself. I shall talk down every sunset ("Isn't that adorable, dear? What brilliant hues."). I shall fill notebook after notebook with rambling observations. I shall watch screens, read books, speculate, and masturbate, masturbate, masturbate. Dear God, help us to stay at home near the dishes and salad forks, let us bake our cookies and remake the bed and remake the bed and remake the bed. Lord help us avoid the primordial sound, the sightless void, and the eternal quiet. Let us bore the eons with our talk, with our talk, with our talk.

That's when the Warrior Ants attacked. Alaster had just said "with our talk" a third time and then trumpets went off like sirens, tiny little trumpet sounds, a billion killer ants all around us, the biggest fucking ants you ever saw.

Jester the Jackal here. Where's the beef, dude? There will be an answer letter B, letter B, there will be an answer, letter B. Snap, Crackle, Pop. Is that you, Batman? Take my picture, fool. Incoming answer to your last prayer: God says, "No!" Mann Perception anomaly: Vertigo possible. Alert! Too much pressure on the temporal cortex! I can't hear you! Turn over, please; you're snoring again. Chutzpah failure! Mann overboard! This is your brain on virtual drugs, dude.