The past is slurred, smeared, smudged
like unknown, unnamed stars
deep in the night
rending their light like widows
that scream across the darkness
for the death of their light.
Protean, amorphic, the past
is a stem cell
not a pyramid
that keeps being nudged into eyes
by things as they change in the present.
The past is a river of many voices
all flowing as one
like the threads of the strong rope
it used to climb down from heaven
like a pendulum,
like a man unjustly condemned.
The past is a rosary of skulls,
the beads of many moons
strung like vertebrae
along a spinal cord
to jam with the spheres.
I have drifted in the high fields of the past
like the evening vapour
of the man I breathed out
and watched the hours fall like petals
from the shy clocks of the flowers
and knew the blood and the time
and all the variant themes of my sorrows
were not the old cups I once drank from
when I could chug the moon,
nor the black hoods
I pull down like eclipses
over heads that will surely come off
like the lame excuses I indict
for all these acephalic tomorrows,
but always and forever
without beginning or end
the loneliest road of now
in the mode of a man
that life has ever walked.
But you mustn’t think
the road ahead
like a wave or a breath or time
is driven by the road behind,
or that the future hasn’t happened yet
or the morning is younger than the night
or the past is a lack of beginnings.
Be a smart fish and swim through the net
of your own constellation like stars
always a prelude ahead of their shining
like new moons opening their eyes
on the illustrated calendars of our scars.
Prophecy is just a future memory
you look at now
with the eyes of the past
before the arising of signs
smears the bubble
with rainbows and oilslicks
and the symbolic slums
of rundown zodiacs.
I look into the space before me.
I look into the space behind.
Nothing to lose.
Nothing to find.
No waves on the ocean of mind.
My death achieved at the moment of birth
with the first breath
of my beginningless beginning,
I am time. I am the pageless calendar
of the ageless earth, the eternal abyss
that primed the stars in such a way
the light is not young
the light is not old
and the taste of the rain in spring
is the taste of the rain in autumn.
There’s a past.
But it hasn’t begun yet.
And there’s a future.
But don’t wait.