IT’S ONE THING TO BELIEVE IN GOD
It’s one thing to believe in god
but it’s a much lonelier crusade
without a Jerusalem
to go looking for a god
without a guiding star
that believes in you as you are.
Mind is more like space than a thing
and it’s the nature of space to liberate
and who could possess it
and who could conceal it
and who could wound it
and who could heal it
and when the ignorant ask
for proof of its existence,
looking for fossils of dragons in the air
who could reveal it?
And what the ashes speak of isn’t fire.
One man hears a voice
and gets up from his table
and goes and stands
in the doorway of himself a long time
listening to the stars that beckon him
to wander out into the darkness
beyond his windows
but he’s afraid of what he might meet
and eventually retakes his seat
and adjusts his unease like cutlery,
but others hearing the same voice
will flare up like startled waterbirds
and burn like swans of white phosphorus
sailing their paper boats
like Cygnus down the Milky Way
or poems on the mindstream,
while others graze on the shadows
that have overgrown the roads
that once stretched lightyears
beyond the reach of the lamp
that busies itself with the enlightenment
of guided tourists
through an inner sanctum
that gathers its own to it
like a pilgrimage of moths.
Three waves of the same reality.
Three snowflakes on a furnace.
Three voices in an ancient abyss
trying to clarify the silence.
I am not cynical enough
to condemn the lies
that humans must tell themselves
to avoid their own tears.
On this dark shoreless sea of truth
we wouldn’t be here
if someone hadn’t learned
how to make love in a lifeboat
with lies for oars and lies for stars
and lies for reasons to hope.
But even if you’re as demonically sophisticated
and aloof as a lifeline
in a palace of patrician stars
that have grown chaste
in the pursuit specific desires,
you’re still just another refugee
on the Road of Ghosts
that leads everywhere away like the smoke
that mothered the flames
of your ancestral fires.
You can still breathe
without having faith in the air,
you can still see
without making a creed of your eyes
you must believe
by shutting them off from the light
and squinting at sin
through a keyhole in the night
that keeps changing hearts
like cellphones and locks
that won’t let you in.
Your hypocrisy is a little demon
compared to the world-destroying universe
that kills without losing its innocence.
The righteous of any religion, philosophy, ideology
can’t point at anything with a clean finger
and the first article of belief
is a confession of your own negligibility.
Boot-camp for the spirit
to derange one delusion into another
by putting another mask
like a change of heart
on its facelessness.
Better to stay clear, and free, and dark
and know without binding yourself to the fact
that you’ve never been anyone from the very start
except what you’ve invented
guided by misguided teachers
to insist upon as yourself.
Mind can’t be framed by eleven dimensions
in a hall of distinguished portraits.
without colour, taste, texture, sound,
it isn’t the beginning or end of anything,
and when it goes looking for its source
it holds a mirror up to space
to the furthest limits of its seeing
where there is no light, no face, no being,
and it must be said
if you’re convinced
you’re already dead
no not-being either.