NO ENTRANCE TO THE MIND
No entrance to the mind.
No entrance to space.
What needs to open
when you’re the gateless gate?
Don’t think of yourself as a thing.
Don’t attribute form to the formless.
Don’t assume there’s a little person
the size of your thumb
mired in your brainmud
like an understudy of you
that you can consult like a script
when you forget your lines.
Reality isn’t impersonating you.
There may be a play going on
but there’s no actor
and everything is making itself up
as it goes along,
spontaneously improvising itself
out of circumstances and events.
But you’re not the play, the player,
or the expletive audience.
Not the theatre of the abyss
in which all this occurs
nor the confluent weaving of themes
into a recognizable resolution.
And there’s nothing wrong
with making constellations out of fireflies
and following them
as if they were reliable guides.
Anyone of them will lead you home
as long as you realize you’ve never left
and every step of the way
is the long road of a narrow threshold
that can’t be crossed.
Right now, you’re like a mirage,
supple palms and undulant water
trying to get down to its roots,
trying to discover the truth of yourself
in broken pots and noseless statuettes,
and the skulls of those whose thirst for life
believed in you until they discovered
that you were rooted in the air.
Have you ever considered
what you owe to the desert
that sustains the illusion?
And when you get right down to it
why pretend you’re the child
of clarity and confusion
when you know in your depthless depths
that no one’s there
to be confused or clarified?
You don’t need to sweep
dead stars off
your stairs and windowsills,
or mirages from the desert,
illusions and truths from your mind,
the northern lights from the sky,
or stand under a tree
collecting bird feathers
to learn how to fly
when you’re already the freedom
they fly through.
And in or out of the egg,
it’s the same, vast, tranformative view
and when you remember to realize
that no one’s there to see it,
that what’s left
is not what’s left of you,
that you have no origin or end
there’s nothing to wound,
nothing to mend.