Streaming down,
The raw universe;
Twisting prism of one long memory
Streaming for light years
Through the air of dreamers.
Attenuated reflections of faces and stars
Inside the union of mirrors
Stretching for millions of miles-
The concreteness of space
The abstractness of rock
The transient eternal
Streaming mad and naked
Within the diaspora of reflections
Barreling down and down
Through an enormous hole in the sky,
An avalanche of infinity
In which the stars have nowhere to
hide.
Moonlight in mirrors
Imploding in a vacuum of silver,
A long tornado of mirrors,
The great mirror of the present moment
Become one vast window.
A whirling funnel of dream and existence
A centrifuge of mind
Uncoupled from reason,
Volute navel
Of the pregnant heavens,
Absurd womb
From which my very first cell was
fed
Inside that labyrinth.
My torqued soul
Screwing in the astral winds,
Unlocking the first gate
Shrieking
With the birth pangs
Of my mother.
My torqued soul
Screwing inside the wind-blown
skeleton
Of existence
Unlocking the final gate
Shrieking
With the death pangs
Of my body.
The silver and violet fabric of space
Torn wide open,
The garments of the soul burst and rent,
The All naked before sight,
The flesh of day, the flesh of
night.
Nude stars doffing rays of light,
Their holy vestures unraveling in threads
of fire.
My soul raving in rags
Of thought and speech,
My head singing
Amidst all these sparkles of one
brightness
An invisible assembly of a trillion
beings,
Gods, demons, angels -
An ocean of Spirit where spins
A cyclone of whirling souls
As flies lay eggs
In the carcasses of lizards
That ants carry away to their nests.
II
Far in the desert, one broken signpost
With nothing written on it.
In a dream you understand anyway
The direction you must go.
You knock at the door of a house
Assembled from a myriad of contradictions.
On it is inscribed in a frenzied hand,
“Paradox”.
The wind kicks up.
All at once
You have an epiphany of being
Aroused by the commonplace of dust.
Your knock goes unanswered.
Back into the desert you wander
Lost inside a dream.
At the nexus of chaos and order.
You are their bursting limen
Where mantic galaxies scream prophecies
Contained in the Book of the Muses.
An automatic script
Written on the clay tablet of
Earth,
An ancient lullaby
Beside the orphan cradle of
civilization,
A bawling infant
Raised in poverty of understanding
By the hopelessly tragic grandmother
Of strange mystery
Your thought like a runner after a
race,
A dancer after an exhausting dance
Here
Your mind is a very small cog
In a vast machine
Which assembles atoms into the universe,
That eternally manufactures wonder
and pain.
You labor for a lifetime
Covered in the sweat of celestial
madness.
In the divine economy.
This sweat is your capital.
You own the universe.
You consume it in illimitable privacy.
In this tornado of dream ,
In this whirling funnel of existence
Faith you have, and intuition too.
Both beyond reason
That is perfected by reason
When it surrenders to the absurd,
When it leaps into the window beyond
With faith
And the tornado which never ceases,
And the centrifuge which never cools
And the hole in the sky
Which never closes
Are all only a mere intuition of perception
As body and mind are dropped.
