The 99 And Some Names Of Allah Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

Wanting to be a stone has lately become
a fantasy of mine. Not a very large one but
substantial enough to be immovable by man.

Or for that matter smaller than a grain of sand.
Just enough to irritate a lady of the night to
sit on the curb to shake it loose.

And be colorful. And hard or soft at will.
Like a diamond or mud capable to flow
in every imaginable interstice.

Now mind you, in the old days, when I was
born, rocks were there for the finding. Not like
today. Displayed in pet stores on shelves

and priced by the carat like precious stones.
Or made into pet rocks and treated as such.
Sometimes I fantasize I am made into

a multicolored sand Mandala and flow like blood
Or become significant to my other half at least
as much as a semi precious rock.

Or become a Whiskey stone and lay at the
bottom of a shot glass like a shrimp in wait.
What if I were born in the Stone Age when

we were made of stone. Some I hear were
even made into pillars of salt.
How much time did it take to lick one down

to the size of table salt? Did one's tongue
preserve for eons?
And if it did, did they store them in urns?

Are people's last names with the same spelling
their descendants? Or be a painted a spirit rock
like the Indians did eons ago.

I'd like my portrait as an ET painted on a vast
plain and mislead Erich von Daniken into
believing I came from outer space.

Or dance the rock and roll and break the news
on the TV. And especially be called by a
thousand more names than Allah ever was.