THIS MORNING I’M HAVING
This morning I’m having a lot of lonely fun
in a vast, clear space brighter and more intelligent than silence
and older than eyes
speaking in tongues to the gravestones
before I give them their names.
It’s amazing what a shadow can achieve
when it isn’t attached to anything.
Last night I noted the advance of Orion into winter
and Jupiter in Sagittarius
tried to remember the names of all its moons
and the atomic frivolity of their mythic significance.
Things have changed since I was a boy.
Since I woke up from myself
I’ve never let a god or a mirror
do my dreaming for me
and everything is a passion beyond
what is true and what is not.
And I’m wary and bored with anything
that looks like a map.
The stars are a living language
that have whispered us into our own ears
like a rumour of their radiance,
though I don’t wholly subscribe to anything.
Sometimes I think all knowledge
for all that we make it
the quicksand cornerstone of existence,
and erect ourselves upon it like an obelisk
is nothing more than cosmic smalltown gossip.
The cartouches link up
like constellations and thoughts
and handcuffs and coral and chains
and the good guess and the lie and the weathervane
embalm the blessed in a coffin of law
and sow pyramids along the river like seed.
Like time, I keep an intimate distance
from the things I change
and breathe myself in and out
without a thought or a doubt about my beginnings
or which star my afterlife is aimed at,
or whether I’ll hit the mark or not,
knowing too much about what I don’t know
to corrupt the sincerity of my ignorance with existence.
Just the same, when I listen to space
I can hear the roar of the dragon
firing everything up like the furnace of a black hole
or the cylinders of an unbaffled Harley
that elaborates itself like the road that rides the man
and marvels that so much has come of nothing
and that nothing comes of anything
until September forgets itself
and everyone remembers
they’re nothing like they are or want to be
and everything is always fulfilled, already achieved
and to be so incomprehensibly alive
is to be so understandably dead
that life is not an agony endured without a lover.