Spare me the inky, thinky glue
and matchstick rafters of your philosophy
piled like a pyre to proposition a corpse
or I’ll show you what a snappy Zippo can do.
And don’t pour honey all over my head
trying to turnpike a tarpit
into an asphalt highway with a toll booth
when you know there are all kinds of extinct species
I like to keep like memories to myself
and I don’t have a sweet tooth for candied stars.
There are dark truths in the night
that keep the light to themselves,
occasions of insight
whose light has never fallen upon anyone
who could see.
The sun at midnight
isn’t blinded by its own lucidity.
And when reality sits down to play with me
there are no eyes or mirrors up its sleeve.
Average out the crucials as you wish
and believe whatever you want to believe,
order the trees to pull themselves up by their bootstraps,
conceive and be conceived by life
like the dawn of a book you haven’t written yet.
Wash the night off your butterflies like soot
changing shifts at the small factories
they’ve adapted to like pollen
or pin them like poppies and medals
to the chests of the fallen as loss requires.
You might make a choir
out of the orchard in winter yet
and raise all that roadkill like a messianic vet
alone in the wilderness
listening to the bush wolves and racoons
like angels and demons
howling in the bowels
of the maggots and turkey-vultures
attending to caloric conversions of their own.
But you can’t add to the lustre of the dark mirror
whose clear light is the eye of the void
by washing mud off with mud.
It’s one thing to see things in the light
but it’s wholly another
to see them illuminated
by the light within the light
that is their dark mother.
Anyway, it’s not really crucial
whether you have the eyes for it or not,
because the way things come together here
where we stand in unknowing wonderment before the stars
like rootless trees still swinging from our own branches
of feeling and thought,
is all ways at once.
So it’s as good a medium as any
to express yourself
by going into hiding.
Gods do it to conserve energy.
As it is to go off like the Big Bang
and squander yourself like atoms
on the minutiae of creation.
There are infinite centres in the eye of the void
falling through space
like uncradled angels of rain right now
to give birth to the boundless circles
that are growing you like a tree
by expanding your radii
all at once in every direction
like a pulse, a star, a wave, a snake, an insight
riding its own sentience like the sea
that finds it one and the same
to walk on stars
without burning its feet
as it does to walk barefoot on water like you
leaving your shoes on land
where all journeys end in their own beginning
like mangers of fallen fruit.
Whether you’re looking for God
in the spirit’s lost and found
or the the true undemonized nature
of reality and mind
behind the veil of a faceless dimension
that mans and unmans the measure of all things
in the lightmirrors it takes a thought to cross your mind
from the perennial beginning,
haven’t you noticed how the needle of the compass
you’re using to grope the curbs of your own coasts
like a blind man witching his way with a stick
across a street when the lights turn
keeps pointing back at you
like a crosswalk following the maps
you’ve laid out to explore the topography
of your own used thresholds?