Everyone is “religious” in the sense we all “worship” someone, something–whether finite or infinite. Who or whatever preoccupies our minds; we obsess about, act compulsively toward is our god. Addiction is idolatry. This cryptic poem is actually about the quoted source’s life.
Religion is a system of wishful illusions, together with a disavowal of reality, such as we find nowhere else but in a state of blissful hallucinatory confusion.
—Sigmund Freud, the Future of an Illusion.
He fished in the depths, where murky shapes
glided like Manta Ray shadows,
fishy eyes glowing red from hellish sockets.
He reeled brackish forms to the surface
where they erupted, eyes doused by light
to float away as wet silhouettes.
Daily he offered oblations to his twenty-some
idols, incense rising in oceanic smoke and
staining walls like layers of old paint.
Samson’s jawbone is chipped away
piece by piece
and at twilight Morpheus anointed bliss
into him through the needle’s eye.