LIFE IS AN ORDER OF CHAOS INTERACTING WITH ITSELF
Life is an order of chaos interacting with itself.
Look at how much awareness has to take for granted
as if the body were the patron of the mind
to have the time to think of what I’ve just said.
On our own we’re wavelengths unravelling
like loose threads in a flying carpet that waxes and wanes
like the phases of a watersnake on the moon
that lays its light down like an undulant sword in tribute to the lake
that receives it like the hour hand of a many-headed clepshydra.
Together we make particles of ourselves.
We’re a compilation of perimeters we’re always
violating like boundary stones in an asteroid belt
in order to grow out of the visions and skins
that restrain us in this world of forms
like the normative straitjackets of ill-defined things.
Dictions change, the slang, the patois, the demotic,
the dream grammars in the abyss of little deaths
we experience as sleep that makes us visionary illiterates
on the scaffoldings of dark matter we climb up on
to paint an image of what we can see of ourselves in passing
of a world we keep failing to live in in order to survive
our own insights without losing our minds with
nothing to show for it but the mystery of why we couldn’t.
And the timing of our ignorance is as crucial and enlightening
as a recidivistic dawn that blinds us with its blazing
by rephrasing the aniconic lyrics of the birds that sing to it.
Everyone frames their shadow and nails it to the wall
like a degree that measures the expertise they have
in the discontinuous history of themselves
or the future memories of prophetic mirages
irrigating the deserts sands of an hourglass that never floods
or greens the harvests they thrive upon like a death wish
for something more than life as they know it to grow beyond.
Last night I was brave enough to remove the face
my death mask was wearing like a hidden secret
I wanted to keep to myself. Tonight I’m laying
my hands on my heart like a faith healer
without the courage to sacrifice the gods to it
like a cure all for what ails my human divinity.
No honour among thieves, no truth among frauds
to make their lies feel real against the odds they might be.
Auspicious constellations reveal the ambiguity
of my metaphoric initiations into the clarity
of my quantum entanglements in the mystery of a life
that recognizes me indifferently in the signs of what
I’m becoming liberated from like everything I’ve ever known
or second-guessed about the waywardness of my seeking self
never so much at home in the world as when I’m lost.