a waking mind aware of being here nor there

(or, mental amusement before seeing the light of day)

I am older than the selves of life leap-frogging along the making of time and place.

I am before the restless generations of becoming and dying and becoming. Before the chaos, the watery womanly demos of unthinking flesh and bone generating the moon time. Before the history of fallings from the womb and returnings to its vaginal elections. Before the breeding laying beneath the seeing of me alone unpartnered, uncoupled from the frenzy of fucking before corpses of stone deadly silence.

No music without the drumming of knowing nothing, knowing everything in the dance. The eros of gorging, of nippled firming of magical wands, then seed spewing and lactation. Who understands the middle churning between the alpha and omega, the bearing of souls from wet wombs spasming the vibrating streaming of being in and out of touching the accordian stops and starts. The attuning done by ear, not seeing the measurement in darkness but in light.

What withstands the onslaught of viral memories of how to suck the energy out of nothing and be such being. Rosy redness sainted nick clauses of coded connection, spitting of flakes of blood frozen in falling from night sky of the womb, here and not here, there and not there. Which is it after all?

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silent soundings

(written on Tuesday, January 29, 2008, at 5:30 am)

He heard a piano playing the melody
without touching a key,
a voice singing the lyric
without sounding a syllable–

the music mounting in concert to make
a symphony of his imaginings
without the vacuity of a hall of mirrors
echoing the glamor of echoes.

Silent soundings of mind in solitude,
like yellow canaries once suffocating below in the dark
now breathing above on wings as a flock in the light,
play a music without intention,
of no use to anyone, not even to him.

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when we write who we think God is

(written on Saturday, January 12, 2008 at 8 o’clock in the morning)

When we write
who we think God is,
let’s not dot all the i’s
and cross all the t’s
of our quick thinking
as if we had answers
to fill up a quiz.

Even great Doctor Thomas
heard the sacred
beating in a solitary human heart
more than in all his
medieval scaffolding of arguments.

Perhaps, like him
we’ll learn to see
with greatest certainty
that what we think we know
is likely wrong-headedness
we caught from someone else.

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