LIVING OFF THE GRID
Living off the grid in the interstices between the threads
of the spider webs bejewelling the sky with stars
like the net of Indra in the morning dew. Mark one drop
and they’re all marked. Subtract from one
and you take from all. Same way with our eyes
when they see like crystal skulls right through
the ruse of themselves to the glassblowers
of fifteenth century Germany. Cool visuals.
The light refracting off the nuanced smear
above their left front parietal lobes as if
they had something as happy and irrational as water
to be clear about in a brittle kind of way.
And that’s ok, that’s ok, that’s ok, too,
but you’ve got to get down and dirty in the starmud
like the root of an optic nerve deep in the dark matter of the brain,
if you want to be what you see in the visionary sense of the word.
If you want to fly with the dragons that bring the rain
you can’t sip like a hummingbird collecting blood samples
from the hollyhocks. You can’t live like a tuning fork
witching for a lightning strike if you haven’t got
the circuitry for it. If your axons aren’t grounded to the earth
you’ll be blown out like the brown out of a power station
that wasn’t a fit companion for the sun
because you couldn’t handle the excruciating transformations
of your own shining, the disciplined ferocity
of a controlled burn. You’re either one of the fire wombs of life
or the ashes of a dragonfly in the furnace of a chrysalis
that breaks like the under-fired pottery of a fortune-cookie urn.
Or a stale koan. Either way you’re not a guru of the absurd
that’s been enlightened by the crazy wisdom standing
in the backlit doorways of delusion, grateful for a hand out
if you’ve never shaken your spiritualism down on the street
to feed your hungry ghosts something meaty and sweet.
If you want to build your house in the back starfields
of an off road zodiac, you’ve got to start like an incipient galaxy
with a big black hole as deep as a godhead in your heart
and the bedrock foundation of an asteroidal avalanche
that brings the mountain down on the valley like a gravestone
that’s waiting for somebody to put their name and return address on it.
Even if you’ve blooded your abstractions with soporific poppies
and you’re sleepwalking through dreamland, you’re still
not homeless enough to be in exile from yourself.
You’re still breathing in and out like a hinge on a gate in space.
And there’s a light in your face that tells me you’re
a lantern in the dark that’s never worn its own deathmask
to a ghost dance without paling like the stars
in the false dawn of the fire that consumes them.
And I’ve noticed you never take
the cranium of your begging bowl
around to the door of an entrance
from which there is no exit.
And that’s ok, that’s ok, that’s ok, too.