By Chet Corey

It was a recurring dream.
Oedipal, said Freud.
Impossible, said God. I have neither father nor mother.
God called for Jung.
What did Freud say, asked Carl.
Oedipal, God said.
Impossible! You have neither father nor mother. Let me
recline on your couch while you tell me your recurring dream.
It’s not leather, God said. It’s only naugahyde.

A little dissatisfied, Jung lay back and fell soundly asleep.
When he awoke, God asked if he had dreamt.
I dreamed I died and went to Heaven, Jung said.
Were you happy there, God asked.
Yes, except . . .
Except for what, my son?
Freud was there. Freud’s everywhere!
Make him go away . . . make him go away!
There . . . there, God said.

Copyright Corey 2016