Monday, September 9, 2013



Whether you call it crazy wisdom or not
I mean. Gone. Nuts. Neither in nor out of my mind.
So if I were to say to someone I’d made it
to the other side, I’d have light years further to go
than before I started out. Great wisdom
from the further shore, yes, but if your river
is still emptying into an abyss, something poured out,
albeit in bliss, like the rapturous mindstream of Aquarius
at its most mysterious, you’re still skinny dipping
in the waters of life breath-watching through
the gills and aqua-lungs of your afterbirth.
Meditation might help stabilize your full lotus
vision of life, but that doesn’t mean, it’s not mad
because it smiles a lot with equanimity and compassion.

Proxy enlightenment. Are you still polishing mirrors
like a housekeeper who works for somebody else,
hoping to change all your ostrakons into koans?
The nightwatchmen dreaming at noon on the job
on a dayshift of shadows taking time off like a sundial?
I don’t exhaust myself on the effortless labours of the mind.
Keats: If it come not as naturally as leaves to a tree
it had better not come at all. The rest is artifice.
Il miglior fabbro, but not necessarily, a poet.

The sun turns the heritage field stones of the bank
across the street, pink, orange, yellow, a mood ring
at dawn, at sunset, and the turning of the leaves.
I don’t have to paint a demonic masterpiece of disobedience
to have a change of heart like that. Imagination
explores the hydra-headed life of the mind
caught in the coils of its own delusions with as much
regard for the beauty of its innocence, as its laws,
without trying to con snakes into biting other people.

Should it mean more at the end than it did at the beginning?
Time and space. Perth. September 8, 2013.
Anybody have any idea of what this means
in the greater scheme of immateriality when thought
travels faster than the speed of light time either stops
or returns to the past like a snakekpit of waterclocks.

No one has a local habitation or a name anymore
if they ever did, but runic taboos on the boundary stones
of our prophetic skulls aside, couldn’t that be
the uncaused effect of space expanding
the unbroken circles of our minds centred
in the infinite everywhere of our shape-shifting formlessness?

The more seriously it takes itself the sillier wisdom seems.
One night we’re going to run out of stars
to take our bearings by, far, far, far, into the dark
and just as it is now, so it will be then,
the mind lighting lamps in the shade of its own shining
trying to see who goes there. If you start out seeking
you’ll find a way to hide, or hiding, all things
will be revealed as a kind of childhood game
you’re playing with yourself as if your left foot
didn’t know what your right was up to
when you came to a sacred fork in the road
at the equinoctial intersection of time with the timeless
between your legs like the pivot of a compass
trying to fly in your wake like the begging bowls
of pleading seagulls. Even when it’s new,
the moon is always full. The sun rises at midnight.

In the beginning was the imagination. Were
you there at the creation of the stars, somewhere
in the crowd of nameless angels, or were you
inconceivably notable for the mystery your absence?
A creation myth of yourself founded on the past
as if there were some kind of continuum between you
and your emergency exits off the freeway you were on.
I think we’re all hitch hikers watching the world pass
from the back of a pick-up truck. I think because I think
I am not. What difference does it make to the mirror
if you break it like the radiant of a meteor shower,
or falling stars cliff-jumping toward paradise
like the rebuffed lovers of suicidal angels with nothing to wish for,
or praise it for never telling you the same lie twice?

There’s nothing oracular about anyone’s reflection
they can consult for advice without turning into
a warrior healer who takes the words right out of their mouth
like spears and arrows and lightning strikes of insight
from the blood seal of a wound that authenticates the pain.

Life’s an agony. Life’s a breeze. Three and a half pounds
of starmud packed into the neo-cortical labyrinth
of the brain whispering to itself in the dream grammar
of its own biofeedback, the mind is as uniquely
inconceivable to the enlightened as it is
discretely believable to the indiscriminately insane.

Doubt or no doubt, when the secret’s out
like a mirage of water nearby on a lens of air,
there’s nowhere to hide but out in the open
in the third eye of the storm turning like a prayerwheel
counterintuitively to the clockwise direction of creation
in the northern hemisphere, unless you’re a sunflower
closer to perigee in the south. And you know what
I’m talking about as if you had a mouth of your own
that makes things clear as they appear to be alone.

Feathers of moonlight on the waters of life, stars
igniting fires in the crowns of the black walnut trees,
mad enough to mentor metaphors into liberating you
from unnecessarily sweeping the mirages of the stars
like sand paintings of the constellations off the stairs
you climb on your knees to throw away
the crutches and training wheels of your extremities.
In this house of life, the mind relies on nothing
as the natural cure-all for the heart’s home remedies.


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