IN THE DEEP END OF THE NADA POOL
In the deep end of the nada pool
everyone drowns in their own eyes.
The summer triangle goes down in the west
and there’s a first snow on the last day of November.
How many dirty windows
must the light pass through
before it can see clearly?
And what’s the point of asking
the mirror and the mask
that suffuses creation with intelligence
if all it ever does is reflect you
on all sides of the question
as if you were all rivers
in a single drop of water at once
looking for the sea?
I uphold the integrity of my mystic specificity
like the Higgs boson particle
that gives everything its mass
but I can only imagine myself as far as I am
and it’s as impossible for me to fly out of myself
as it is to measure the wingspan of water.
You can’t pour the universe out of the universe
like a snake out of its skin again and again like the moon
and move on forever with your tail in your mouth
as if you were trying to catch up to yourself
by swallowing your head.
I have hung on.
I have given up.
And I have let go.
But even enlightenment
is the aspiration of a firefly
to illuminate the darkness like a lightning bolt.
And when you burn like a black hole beyond the light
for a deeper insight into your life
and why you’re walking around on the earth
doing what you are
because you were born to enquire
there is no star to guide the lost mountain down
these dangerous goatpaths
into the valley you heard call your name.
And what’s to seek
when everything speaks to you
in your own voice?
And is it better to flow along with things as you do in a dream
like autumn leaves on the nightstream
that writes all the books
that you read like lifelines on the palm of your hand
to understand not just how the story ends
but why it began in the first place.
In the beginning was the word,
and God said, kun fia kun. Be. And it was.
And the rest is the afterlife of the Big Bang
that came of the foreplay
of branes kissing in hyperspace
to give the inconceivable a human face.
But let the fools of light
keeping rubbing the new lamps
of their impersonal cosmologies as they will
hoping some geni will appear like smoke in a mirror
like the affable familiar that gulled Faustus with intelligence
in the form of Mephistopheles.
Ah, Faustus, why this is hell.
Nor are we out of it.
And the world is full of sound magicians
yearning to be demi-gods
who have forgotten
blazing too is a kind of blindness.
But nur wa nur, light upon light,
when you turn the darkness around
there is more seeing in anyone’s eyes
than there are stars without bound above you.
How can you ever get anywhere you haven’t been before
if you keep knocking on your own door
to let yourself out with the cat?
And have you ever in all these years
of living on the precipice
of your fear of falling
ever stepped out into
the open inner spaces of yourself
without a parachute or straitjacket?
Have you ever walked on stars
or suddenly felt yourself feathered with fire
in that urn full of ashes
that bears your heart in a skull
like a geriatric embryo
that’s given up hope
and madly ecstatic at taking flight
pour yourself out on the wind
like the phoenix of a loveletter that’s long overdue?