Tuesday, March 19, 2013



Within, an intimacy with cosmic affairs
down to the mystic details of the labyrinths
I’ve wandered in like a lab rat trapped
in my own spiritual fingerprints.
Without, I stare for light years into
the vast, cold, vacancy of the abyss
leeching the light out of the stars
by applying black holes to the blood-letting
like the poultice of an eclipse to break the fever
and drain the delirium of my starmud
by sweating visionary eyes out of my pores.

Reality is no more probable than any other delusion.
If you’re truly ignorant, there’s no confusion.
What could there possibly be to argue about?
That’s why I know less about death
though it’s all around me like an absence
I’m inconceivably unaware of like a nightwatchmen
who doesn’t know he’s dreaming realistically
of bearing a skeleton key like a cross on his back
that would rather make sure things are locked up
and accounted for, than hold his lantern up
to see what’s going on inside beyond the bars
on the closed windows of his one-eyed way
of looking at the world as if he were protecting its secret.

The marvels never cease. The wonder never dissipates.
The mystery will always be the unrecognizable fragrance
of a wildflower you’ve never seen before that haunts you
like a muse of life that aligns your longing with hers
to amplify the whispers of the fireflies talking in their sleep
about unionizing the night shift into constellations like the stars
and the guild houses of the zodiac, each with their own sign.

No need to serve a long apprenticeship looking for your mind
with its tail in your mouth, no need to turn your mirrors
inside out to get to the bottom of your creative origins
that made you up like a story that followed you
around the fires of life like smoke as you got along
the best you could with what you couldn’t help living
like a ghost dance in the ashes of your sacred pyres
and sky burials that taught you the wings
that feather your thermals like a joy-ride in a stolen vehicle
might be yours, but the wind belongs to no one.

You don’t need to get so spaced out about
your mythically inflated enormities you go into orbit
around the earth like a Cyclopean Hubble Telescope
shuttered like the third eye of a lizard looking dispassionately
upon galactic events in a universe throwing
the luck of our bones and skulls up against the wall
like black dice with albino snake-eyes like Castor and Pollux.

There will always be more to the shining
than the sentience of whatever life forms are looking at it
from the shadows of an absence it’s impossible to express
except as a feeling that perhaps this time
you received a secret loveletter
that didn’t go to the wrong address and lifespan after lifespan,
era after era of your infinite afterlives, you’re deeply assured
won’t return you to the lost and founds of the spiritually anonymous.

The notoriety of your solitude will be famous
among the nameless who have never heard of you
but for a rumour or two of some light-hearted hermit
that’s laired up in the cave of his prophetic skull
with the wavelengths of demonic vipers intelligently weeping
like underground rivers from his eye sockets
in the unwalled gardens of galactic paradaisia
in a desert of stars he drinks from
like both sides of the hourglass that intoxicates his seeing
as if time were the measure of how empty and full
a human face can feel under the lunar deathmask
he’s been wearing like the birthmark of enlightenment
since he first opened his eyes like observatories
raining in the ancient grasslands of the Sahara
to illuminate the blooming of wild asters in late September.

When nothing’s revealed. Nothing’s dissembled.
And herein lies the crux and dizzy crossroads
of the essential insight that drives humans
lucidly mad with crazy wisdom, nothing but nothing
is the way it is and isn’t, not the light, not the dark,
not the water, not the mirage or the clarity, and this
is the unlocatable insubstantiality of unattainable reality
and that the omnidirection of the only road it can be approached by.


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