Thursday, May 2, 2013



Sometimes the sea returns me to my dreams
like a drowned man washed up by a wave
like a cinder from under its eyelid on an island
I return to like a message in a bottle from the future
that says don’t risk yourself to save me, it’s hardly worth it
compared to who you wanted to be way back then
when you laboured to amount to more than I’ve ever been.

I’ve been bobbing like this Orphic moon
of a prophetic skull across this dark night sea
for lightyears now singing to myself in the abyss,
the self-abnegating minstrel of my melodious emptiness,
listening for any sign of life in these sidereal realms
that dumbfound the starmaps when I ask
to what point, what for, into a coma of silence
that echoes from mirror to mirror like a spent satellite
that wandered out of orbit like a slack guitar string
that didn’t want to stay in tune with the music
of the usual shepherd moons. But I ask, anyway,
thinking the answers might be quantumly entangled
with the questions somehow it’s impossible to fathom
except as just another poetic lucubration in the void
of what life has made of me for the last sixty-four years.

Maybe it’s all one long beginning that flows on forever.
I hope, of course, though hope isn’t the most reliable horse
winged or not, to bet on, whatever I’ve done
might be to the betterment of God knows what,
but something, whether I’m the last to know or never
and it’s better that way, or, at the very least,
if humanity’s lost the taste for itself and more
robotic sensibilities want to forget who we are
and cauterize their hearts to the civilized savagery
of atrocity, waste, and devastation we’ve wreaked
upon millions and millions of lives throughout history,
poetry was the most graceful and absurd sorcery
of the word I could be apprenticed to like the muse
of a dream grammar that taught me to sing metamorphically.
What a curse humans have afflicted upon themselves
and the robots will be worse, much worse than now.
O may it not be so, but too many languish in the alibi
of inevitability and even astronomical catastrophe
seems to have lost the power to change our minds
like proto-mammals back in the age of the dinosaurs.
And it isn’t if we didn’t see it coming from a long way off.

If you let your oceanic awareness of the multiverse
linger in the shadows of your big, blue, cosmic eyes
there’s still something, isn’t there, perennially true and beautiful
about watching a mother wash her daughter’s hands
in a fountain in a park like the wings of a small bird
when you recall all that had to occur from God particles
to black holes for that momentary act to happen,

all the collaboratively creative annihilations that had
to take place in an unending succession of cosmic events
big, small, incomprehensively, or randomly significant
like fireflies and stars, trace meaning of metaphors
leaving half-lives and contrails of where they’ve been
in the field of view of a few who see them for everyone
like the moon and the sky in a drop of dew, or jewels
in the net of Indra whereby you mark one and they’re
all marked indelibly like a starmap on the waters of life.

Maybe there’s a code-breaker somewhere one day
who’s going to make crystals precipitate out of thin air
synchronistically like a kind of intelligence
that overlooked our starmud as way too sloppy
to be the hard-edged medium their translucency
prefers to work in, but to me it’s this lumpy clump of clay
on a potter’s wheel that can just as soon turn into
a game of creative Russian roulette, this amorphous
nebularity of the vague way each of us is giving birth to stars
within ourselves all the time even if we don’t realize
we’re androgynously pregnant with the inconceivable
like clepshydras breaking water like ripples of rain
in the eyes of a mirror that undulates like the wavelength
of a serpent of mercury, life echoing itself
in the elaborate proliferation of mandalic diffraction patterns,

the evanescence of this endless dream of change within,
without beginning or end, birth, death, cessation or continuance,
beyond ignorance and wisdom, achievement, failure,
the filth we derive our myths of origin from,
or the false dawns of a mythically inflated paradise
that turns its back on the dark energy of the new moon
that inspired it counter-intuitively to conceive of itself
in the first place, this is the dangerous garden I live in
where just to touch a face the mind can feel in astonishment
through the labyrinth of my fingertips and staggered eyes
is a wonder of chaos that it should have been shaped so
out of nothing, I can read it like the face of the moon in Braille
like an ocean where the stars dwell deep within,
light upon light, without any notion of ever having gone
metaphorically blind. However you try to square the circle
of your place among the auroras of air you wear
like the aura of a lifemask that concealed your inner vision
of yourself as adamant as a glacial dolmen
about the size of a thumb stuck in three and a half pounds
of brainmud like a plum pie, o what a good boy am I,
there’s always as much up ahead as you left behind
and take it from me, I’ve tried, just to be true to myself,
however you do, you’re never going to disappoint the mind.


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