The Era of God

My mind is a down-current of REM impression with tiny up-stream trout breaking whitewater into reality.  
 
The fish says  
reality —  
 
The world is a dirtying green of asthmatic spores of dying grass covered in floating bubbles of cold sores en-frozen in the mesopause so that the red Jupiter can scoff at the viral cultures in disease of a heavenly body that grants asylum to cellular masses.  
 
At some point,  
Yggdrasil connected  
more than nine worlds,  
but the added worlds of a schizophrenic.  
Perhaps I went psychotic when I was riding a stag  
until impaled there with Odin  
as the ash tree covered the bellows of the sea maidens in soot,  
and Odin asked, "Could this be Ragnarok?"  
To which I replied,  
"Not until the Wolf eats the sun and the planet drowns in an empty of sea with flames pitter-patting  
like clouds aloft the charpaper sky."  
 
We both gazed above the air, and still the prickly leaves grew.  
 
Then I up-plucked myself.  
Said, "Odin, I've got to return to the human world.  
Did you know that some light elves have stolen away to Midgard?  
They have resucitated a mire of artforms."  
 
Smacked into awakening, my second awakening that day (my first was during the flash of a Century of Lights, tiny buzzards, with beacons, raging about evidence of absence and the dissolution of my gods)  
 
by the perfume of a smoking toast.  
 
If the law of conservation of mass is accurate, the bread must go somewhere when the toast pops out.  
 
And if reality only exists if measured,  
the sole way for me to know that the toaster truly cooked the bread and didn't suck it into a tiny black hole that floats around my kitchen appliances  
is for me to put my head in the toaster.  
 
The fish says  
reality  
 
and nests against the dream.