nameless Nov 1, 2020

do you believe in god?
what do the enormous ancient serpents of the sea
the beasts of the land and the birds of the air
call out to you, booming, in your dreams?
what do the plants whisper on the wind
what do the insects measure
at night?


one man fishes with a line, and another a net
the first stops when he catches a fish smaller than his biggest
but the second plumbs the depths for ever stranger horrors---
ideas are not straight, they are webbed

in a dry room among piles of books and machines
the boy runs his hand over the computer's keyboard
what did grampa do in here?

death is not the end, says the unlit screen
of the threads woven through our lives
and the light which is the heart of life
for we are like books that are songs
at once fixed and malleable, solid and vaporous
full like fractals because lines ricochet through a crystal
each mind haunted by hundreds of ghosts
and years of collecting odds and ends
throw open those doors!

the paintings and statues are mere by-products
do not mistake them for the Art
the angel that is shining between us
the shapes we have no words for

two people sit thinking---
can you distinguish them?


stay alive for me, he sings
brothers and sisters, we tear each other apart
with machines of silence, even as we sing
for the unity which comes through singing
the simple honest work of crying and being held
we are all shining and we cover ourselves
with blankets of words

i will map the state space of emotion
and bake a mushroom pi
i am here to accelerate ideas to .999c
and frame the curling traces on the wall
to see with eyes unclouded
by aversion or longing or categories
and become the kitchen knife---
a blade which cuts to nourish
here where there is no male or female
only you and me and the vegetables for supper

it is no longer a question of belief.


there is no estate sale
only throwing paint out the windows onto canvas
talking to your neighbor
or giving away a cup of rice

i did it, she cries against the roar of the crowd
i did it. i'm here
good. this is only the beginning
we have so much work to do

they are singing
out there, over the mountain
i can hear the vowels on the wind
i can see their faces in my mind
let's go and listen

someday i hope to write something so pure
that it only reflects what you bring to it
maybe such a thing is not possible
but hope has little to do with possibility

so we walk the narrow path of words
our packs loaded with spices


links to:
- i promise you a place of no words
- litany of the crystal flowing mind
- mirror on the mountain
- Omnilinguist
- self-portrait in a spoon
- to stress the magnificence of the universe
- we walk through the city
- words are in the way
- you can close your eyes but not your ears

linked from:
- a sketch of a proof of both the existence and non-existence of God
- an exhortation for clarity
- reconciling atheism and theism
- spirit calculus

all writing, chronological
next: an exhortation for clarity
previous: we walk through the city