2-18-06
Dear journal;
six billion of these angsty moments
six billion of these good-for-nothing moments,
six billion of these “the world is on fire, and I
am scared as shit!” moments
six billion of these slow “I love you” moments.
six billion of these spiritual moments, calling
through the mountains
through the stars
through the skies.
six billion.
A globe,
a six billion victory cries
in the silent, dead sky
A globe,
of these spinning
naked moments, under a sun so sparkling
shining good and splendid,
through ice crystals on a window
and through bare-naked trees
in early morning spring
moments.
A globe of these pin-prick moments,
A globe where we hug our youth and
hug our fathers, and they hug theirs,
back into ancient, unrecognizable
lifes,
and not one of us shares a common thread:
“For me who go,
for you who stay
two autumns.”
We don’t hold a single experience in common,
not a moment of our lives,
yet from a globe
of differing perspectives, we share
the internet,
canons,
religions,
languages,
cultures,
countries,
loves,
tragedies
searching through this peeling,
uncertain blue moon
for a spot to heaven,
escape from Mother Tragedy
hugging our smooth breast,
suckling our warm and wholesome milk,
lining us with inexorable fear,
reduced,
we find ourselves here.
Living.
Because the tragedy of tragedies
is that we can never escape.
We must face every problem,
and can only hide
for a minute or a millennium.
Small peanuts.
Fundamentally,
When the dice are tossed,
(and God and the devil open
their sniper eyes),
we find ourselves here,
in Karmic exchanges,
our entire bodies and
X amount of years
peeling away
vulnerable before
the
naked, hiding lies
of these years. Of lives, aged in
the only reality that escapes
science’s grasp (or is truly smothered
by it.
We are all weak.
Finding ourselves betwixt familiar but old faces.
There are so many levels
a poem an orange an onion,
reality.
Daily consciousness is our most perverted stop
on this freeway.
It is the highest,
shallowest level, tip of the iceberg.
And beneath, we’re all children,
crying and yearning for mother.
We forget nothing,
context changes only.
And so our birth
sings and shouts and shudders
in our daily funerals, somewhere
within us.
It is deeply ironic that we
can never remember that ultimate life
is the dream.,
And the illusion knows our soul.
Every time you sing,
pretend that the world is hearing,
and every time you vomit,
submit your soul, and
every time you fade
fade into a bright new colony.
Follow love, love, love
and understand that God
is behind these coughs.
There’s something deeper
beside these coughs,
and in magical moments, karma’s power of infinite joy
shines together the beautiful, tearful
spring.
I’ve seen the end
in the darkened hallway
kissed it beauty fear
and meltings
of the ultimate child subconscious
pierce us,
so we know were not alone
(finally, at last, at last!)
And dreams lull me away,
soft tumbly magic,
into a day older, day deader,
box fiery consequency,
tragic
adulthood,
but that’s the common lie,
and I shall overcome, while
awaiting the exultings.
