Mid-Morning's Knowing

The rusted funnel of
my consciousness
wanders among the
clouds
of mid-morning's knowing,
and only the butterfly
understands the
tunnel of lightness
that has opened,
that has swallowed me whole,
resisting nothing,
saying nothing,
holding only the knowledge of
trust
and
faith.
Mere words and actions
can't encompass
the promise of
daylight
or one fine
dim moonbean,
and who's listening anyway,
but it doesn't matter-
now the drum of
the infinite
oneness of...
whatever...
has begun to play.
And if you drop your agenda,
only this moment is
pregnant with
the opportunity to
blossom
(or erupt)
into the ferocity
of the
belt of asteroids that
ring the imagined highway
between Mars and
Jupiter
and an infinite amount of
power
(cold fusion, anyone?)
becomes obvious-
if not easily attainable
and nothing is impossible,
the sky keeps expanding
and the further the road
seems to meander,
the closer you feel to heaven
until...

This
moment
has arrived.
Heaven is no place.
God is no man...
or anything at all.
The power of the very air
pulses in and out our
limited carbon-based
respiratory untis of
life-bearing consciousness.

All the churches would
crumble
if they knew this,
really, they would.
All their dogmas
doctrines
dos
donts
suddenly seem like
made-up
Monopoly rules.
That's $50 if you
land on Park Place...
no, make it $150.
Right.
Rent.
I get it.
HA!

Yep, the walls would
erupt in insidious laughter,
and people,
once filling the aisles with
impoverished souls
full of guilt and
hostility,
would run screaming,
peals of laughter echoing
off the decrepit stone walls,
and cast away their
beliefs and superstitions
like
moth-eaten nuns' habits
and dive, naked and shameless
into the effulgent,
glowing sea.

How will the next day feel?
I suppose that depends on
the level of responsibility
the mountains claim
in those first couple of moments.
The sun
awaits the verdict.
The stars have extinguished
their searing pain and
will never know that
form of limitation again.
Only the
limitless freedom of
expansion-
and life begins.
Really.

Remember

Whispers
barely audible
indecipherable
inhabit my dreams.
Reflections of
once and when and of...
I can't quite
remember.
What is
almost clear
but not quite,
nearly visible
but still hidden,
soon to be manifest,
but as of yet
not quite in form.
I can't quite remember
these ghosts,
imprints of
tomorrows
not-yet-news,
and the
broken glass from
next week's glass of wine,
spilt on the carpet-
before...
ah, I just can't remember.
And what else I just can't
recall
is the man who appears in my
dreams
once and again,
not quite occasionally,
and the stories he tells me-
the secrets he whispers are-

I never remember in the morning.
Something about
listening to the song of
the abandoned
conch shell.
Maybe then I'll understand.

Some days I wake up
and I can almost
hear his words-
the paradox of
Einstein in a leprechaun suit-
of God dancing the
polka,
of snow that melts the
ground on which it settles-
the boundaries are dissolved.
I don't know, sir!
Tell me more, please!
What is the value of
infinite knowledge if it
evaporates upon
morning's kiss?
Please, I must carry forth
this song of yours.
Why have you woven
your mystical, poetic tome
into the webbing of my
consciousness,
the realm that
sleeps when awake,
awake only as it sleeps?