20080921

PARADOX

In a handful of Soil
there is much debris
much speculation…enough grains to
account for an entire community…

Count each dust if you can
as the heads of each personality,
thus they say…

Ashes to Ashes…
Dust to Dust.

Take this world,
as a handful of Soil—
in the Eyes of the Moon and Sun
to the guardian stars, we are drifting
in millions as particle…

We do not come in any size
as dust appears—
and for this, people say that
Life has no Meaning.

When we settle upon fertility
blossom enough crops
to bless the world—
people change their minds and say,

Life is Abundant.

II.

I won’t worry myself
over this great paradox:

I see before me a Great Flood
withdrawing its life unto itself:

it is not Your life that it gives or takes.

It lives only for itself.

No one ever told me why we Exist.

It is a question left untouched
as Medicine plant—so wild
no one can ever touch.

Those who have touched it
turned into stone by Logic.

Those who have felt it
have lost their minds.

Those who do not bother with it
accept the Condition.

But Life is neither Worth nor
Not Worth living.

III.

Except this:

Except the gaze of a thousands lovers
that become One.

Except the gaze of One that illumines
the life-current of Many.

Like the petals of a flower that opens its lips—
Life parts its arms to reveal its Heart…

and if you enter that Heart, you see the
Great Mind;

it is the Mind that contains everything
and destroys it all at once.

Understand this,
that we are not really living.

We are alive because we cannot help it
We die because we cannot resist it
We desire because we cannot control it
We renounce because we cannot take it

We love because of our ignorance
We hate because of pride

and that is why Fools who fall in love
call themselves “fools” once they are out of love.

That is why in heat of Self-Hatred
we find Love…

because it is Pride that makes up our minds
it is a net that captures all forms…

It says it is “I” when it is not.
It says it is “You” when it is untrue.

It is this Net that binds us to the finite reality
and causes us to Struggle: against Nothing.

our limbs and fingers fight to find something
which may never be found: because

it does not Exist.

IV.

and in this life, people believe they are Free,
they boast Free Will while their legs
are bound to the bottom of the Sea…

It is easy to find comfort in anything…
in the mud, in dung, in moss, in water, in desert,
in concrete, metal, glass or the heavenly abode of
the flesh that is body.

It is easy to find comfort in anything…
and to get there, we boast options and freedom.

But to the Sun, we are invisible…
and to the Infinite Void, the Sun is invisible
just as each atom is invisible to the naked eye.

If I were to Exist…

Reality can only be witnessed and touched
with Wonder.

For how can the infinitesimal nature of
Thought be measured:
when Reality itself is relative?

From Wonder, the universe cannot help itself
as imagination takes form.

From Wonder, the elements merge and realize
their own dream

Wonder captures itself in a body without body

Wonder is a Net that is cast—
so filled with itself—
loses its own threads.

Only in a state of Wonder does one exist

It is the moment when God is awake and asleep.

It is the moment when the Ocean body returns and retrieves.

It is a time when Birth and Death does not discriminate.

It is a time when Nothing cares.

V.

Caring is for the Hunger…

and one who truly exists…

is never hungry.

If you put your differences into place
you will also be differential and indifferent…

Become like Nature,
it does not discriminate with False alarms;
does not love you, plants or earth….

does not project nor personifies

identifies yet Knows only itself…
love (it if will), but only for sake of itself
flows into itself
dies into itself
lives for itself

knows only one thing—
that it does not exist

and for this very reason
radiates life

towards Everything.

—

About this Poem:

If anyone has figured out my now, my poems are really “discussions.”

Some things cannot be said with the intellect, which has a trap waiting for every thought to be born.

By writing poems in this way, the philosopher’s stone gets to enjoy its own flint…everything can escape it and it does not care: no matter how hard you strike it.

It (this stone or self-knowledge) is indivisible, because its sees itself as the truth.