A man is in a sphere
all he knows is
what hits the outer membrane
–a series of taps,
bright lights,
red, green, sepia
seeping through
a great shaking
and rumbling pervades,
some rhythmic,
some not
from these scraps
an omniverse
known only
to himself
emerges, like some
great and vast
butterfly, floating
above a sleeping figure.
Between the sacred and the profane
there is not a sliver of difference.
We are luminous, we are crude,
we are crudely luminous, we
spill our lives into the sharp
vessel of time without a stray
moment left behind, without
an inch of depth undisturbed,
unperturbed, benighted as a breeze
in Hell, which, if we only knew it,
is Heaven held upside down to
let us trickle into new carnation.
Bah! I’m tired of this twaddle
of infinite souls to the manor
of eternity borne. The least is the best
of us, and the grandest star in the cosmos
destroys itself for our amusement.
The joke is that we are made of it.
Like me, the day resembles an empty vessel,
empty of all that radiates outward,
all that intends malice or desire,
that winks a hundred wishes onward,
holding only God accountable,
leaving any sense behind,
out where there is no boundary,
where edge melts into center,
where all becomes nothing,
where stellar wind washes light
from the first Nothing screamed aloud,
down to the yearning of stars to be born,
to the thin layer of life
astride the cosmos.
Splat!
The universe
In a raindrop
Ah, we say, what a life!
and yet …
We are the heirs of discontent
we carry all colors among us
to their inevitable conclusion
Our eyes are rising swiftly
under an aging sun
What nourished our forebears
we find merely annoying
All those Bible Prophets mute
as sacks of sand
To build dikes against
a flood which never comes
and yet …
here we stand
precisely in their footpads
exiles child 