I WON’T FORCE MYSELF
I won’t force myself to say things
that are tender and loving about life
though there’s much that you can say that is true.
Perhaps it’s no more
than a preference for an illusion,
but I like to see things clearly as they are
as they arise in me
spontaneously out of the void.
I don’t cramp space with my own amplitude
when I add myself to everything like zero.
I am the wholeness of a timeless solitude
that pierces my heart
with a cold spear of existential grace
I almost fear to feel again and again and again
when I embody the longing and the pain
and taste the agony of the beauty and the power,
the burning mystery and the dangerous history
of everything in creation,
suffering my own awareness
like a wounded gift
in wondering if I was born to know
why I am this and nothing other.
The black mirror lies down like a midnight lake
to feel the stars walking across its skin
like long-legged spiders on water.
A doe steps out of the woods
like a constellation into a clearing
and drinks warily from her own eyes.
And where is there an end or a beginning of this?
And when you realize
there are no lies,
that everything is as it is,
what need to seek the truth?
Or delusion with delusion
make up things to enhance your ignorance
of everything you already are
if you could only see your shining
through the eyes of the star
that saw you coming a long time ago
like the dark abundance beyond the lamp
the bright vacancy of the light could grow into
even as it does now.
Sometimes I ache
with the mystic specificity
of this strange effloresence in time
I pretend I know is my mind
when it pearls the world from a grain of sand
that doesn’t understand
the cornerstone that it’s become
and what in the vastness of space upholds it.
And how it sheds itself like eyes of water
streaming down the cheeks of the rose
to clarify its beauty
in the river it scooped the moon from
to wear in the world as a face.
It’s the life of meaning
that goes looking for the meaning of life
and it’s the life of meaning
beyond the scratched shales of the oldest book
it ever gave itself to like inspiration to a theme
glyphed out of its own fossils
that is the first to find it
and the last to look.
Things are what they seem
if you include the seeming in the way you look
the way you play along with children
who dress up to try on who they are.
See the world as a smile.
See the world as a scar.
A firefly in a lighthouse.
Lightning in a jar.