(This is a Dada one, like the one I posted awhile ago, but in this case, the questions are mine.  For the answers, I copied bits and pieces from my notebooks onto strips of paper and selected them at random.  I did take the liberty (poetic license) of cleaning up the grammar in several cases.)

What is the essence of what we try to call God?
An old woman in a red robe sweeping her walk at dawn.

What if all that unimaginable uncreature can do is drift through the universe, trying to pull itself back together?
Then the goldfinches will turn green in the winter, invisible in the hemlock trees, but vivid against the snow.

Is God is powerless?
Yes.  Being contented means having contents.

Is there something you can do to help?
Yes. Experiment with dada but call it mama, that primal cry of “mmmmm.”  Explain in haiku why dahlia bulbs must be dug up every fall in cold climates.

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