Dear Surrogate Mother Whoever-you-are,
Daniel’s 70 weeks are nearly up, and I thought I oughtta write:
And tell you this,
Dear Surrogate Mother, the devil is my brother.
We grew together, and I followed him everywhere
And listened to his every word.
He seemed to know everything about EVERYTHING.
You know, how children believe everything, anyway.
And he had a teddy bear, and I did, too.
Our grandmother made them, the mother of my mother.
His was dark blue and had a sun.
Mine was light blue like a sky and had a crescent moon.
And I held my teddy sometimes at night to sleep not-so-alone.
He was soft. A care bear-type.
And my brother studied at the dining room table after school.
After school after school after school.
Every day after school.
He graduated valedictorian of his class.
He was a national merit scholar from his PSAT has a junior and SATs.
Went to college, double-majored in Spanish lit. and biochemistry.
Worked in computers in the Language Learning Lab keeping up the lab computers.
Fixing professors’ computers.
He taught freshman Spanish as an online course.
He had served a Spanish-speaking LDS mission to Argentina.
My mother doubted he would serve the mission, but he did.
His best friend in high school was killed their senior.
He was captain of the varsity basketball team and state champions they.
My brother played, but not that year.
He ran for student body president but lost.
I was a freshman when he was a senior.
He was borne in the year of Lamech’s favorite number,
When Lamech said, If Cain avenged seven-fold, I seventy-seven.
And I beat him in math competition that year, my freshman year.
But he had taken college courses since his junior year.
And his English teacher didn’t even grade him, just let him free, Do what he want.
And he graduated top of his class in law school, but I was not invited to the graduation.
All the siblings were invited, and parents, too, but I was not.
I never knew my dad’s parents, my grandparents on his side.
I chose my god over my mother, and a wedge went between us.
She wanted to never choose sides between me and my brother,
But that is impossible. People always choose sides.
And I chose my god, and she chose him.
It’s the Jezabel Jesus mystery.
She will live for Eternity.
But those who give up without enduring to the end forfeit all their lies.
As tortoise and hare we have been, my brother and me.
As the serpents of Pharaoh versus Moses we have been.
But as the brazen serpent was lifted up,
And the work was to look to be healed,
So there is an easiness to the way, the easiness just to look.
Dear Surrogate mother, the dividing line became the Book of Mormon.
It is man’s first attempt at Artificial Intelligence to dominate and subjugate the world.
The Mormons in this town have a jubilee planned for next week.
But it looks like FEMA to me, and I asked them, but they said, no.
Come and see. Come and see. They said to me.
Architecture or what? What is there to see?
Because I mowed the law at the twin church next to their gigantic sculpture.
The rain was pouring. Six mowers were going, each with a six-foot swatch.
And long we took to cut those four acres which simply adorn a single church.
No, thanks. That memory is of pain, not joy. Hurry quick to get home. Hot shower.
Dear Surrogate Mother whoever you,
Early this morning I dreamed about Selena Gomez.
And many dreams (I could count them) I have had of her.
But they were all lies until this one last night.
And it seems that the truths hidden in lies are finally coming out of disguise.
So, Please, Surrogate mother, whoever you are,
Please flip the 666 upside down
And remember that perfection is in the eye of the beholder.
Numbers will always tear us down.
The number one does not even exist.
It was the lie fed in Eve’s garden.
To be number one, LIKE UNTO a God.
But perfection does not exist, not even in Jesus Christ.
And that is the Jezabel Jesus mystery and her table filled with troubled food.
Don’t partake. She’ll drink your blood. She’ll drink it dry.
Mathematick is false. Mathematick is false.
Nothing more than an antipsychotic drug for the mentally ill
Those who choose numbers over people.
And my two mission presidents in Peru were each accountants
And said they trust the numbers, but don’t trust the numbers.
Because 999 is the closest, that is, .999 999 999 999 … is the closest we ever get to one.
Without defined limits, it never exists, yet people claim to be number 1.
It’s a devil’s claim built on a false pride.
Please, Surrogate Mother, hear me out.
The rain may come too late.
Figure out and understand the Jezabel Jesus Mystery.
Are they one and the same, and if so by the same power
Designed in Eternity to Eternity, how is then that we are to be?