The oak tree down the block,
diseased and old,
sent the cat,
diseased and old,
on his way.
The tree called me down the street
to take a strip of its bark
back into the house,
so the spell of diseased and old
could be broken.
And then like that,
in a matter of weeks,
the cat whom I had
lived with and loved for
seventeen years
passed away.
Then one day,
eleven days after the cat had died,
the oak tree conveyed unto me
on an afternoon walk;
that those seventeen years
I’d spent living and loving the cat
had been given back to me,
that time doesn’t always work
the way humans think it does.
Tag: physics
You were made beautiful.
And I have been sent
to unmake you
so the beauty that originally
made you
can be made again in you.
You were made beautiful.
Water from a spring
for humanity.
But the metals of men
polluted you.
Though there in your skin
the water runs true.
Just when I see you
I drink you
and refresh you
with the renaissance of
yourself,
the electrification of heaven.
My sweetest blue eyes,
your eyes carry memories
of your making.
I’m quenched.
You quench thus forward.
Turned ancient sojourn of
matter from heaven to
consciousness
it’s you.
Can we born and birth ourselves?
Something in our body did.
Something deep within us.
In our core.
Our origin. Our beginning.
The hours here after our before.
One end of the universe
to the other end.
Right there in our forehead
and our skin
walking within panties or boxers,
walking with the beasts in the fields,
people in the cities,
trees in forests.
Walking by those elder elms
a whisper known to life
the turn of death, the turn of birth
known to self,
a self that does not begin nor end.
The moss on stone.
The mushroom of the kingdom dead.
Estuaries of darkness,
tributaries of light
in every genome and atomic particle,
programmed and programming
space and non-space alike.
Why do the flugelhorn stars
touch so many of us?
Just a bit closer to the mountains
born across thousands of planets.
Mountains all across many homes
we look at
in the midsummer sky
remembering something
we carry in our blood.
Our eyes call out.
Joyous.
Celebratory.
Lonely.
These are gold, far off
flugelhorn stars
that
our theories of physics confirm
these
theories that made and make us.
At night we lay with each other
a human
and a feline
across a place of star fields
we dream
Penthius
Prosthylkass
Zyvar
Places of the endlessly living
Bent fist and paw
we claw
back to mortalhood
With the sun bleaching out
what was known of spirits
we wake to live with
and love each other
not knowing why we love
what has been made amongst
the particles
pronounced in arrangement
It is crystal the dream and day
after
knowing love.
But
why not ceramic
that holds wine and water
in preparation for solace
and sustenance?
Why not terracotta
for thousands of years
perfect for vessels,
made of the earth,
sign of the village?
Crystal clears and obscures,
stops, splits, and opens light
infinite and fixed
so as the nature of the universe,
mysterious by its own instruction set,
unanswerable — though inert
and living.
(Being, having been, vanished…
and continuing to be)
The day after the crystalline
dream
of love
I seek a pitcher
to store and pour
my water,
that I should not thirst.
That I should see you
when you speak,
speak the universe’s psalms
raining everywhere.
Consciousness comes in
and it pours into us
Like the surf rolling in
And it ripples and riptides
Crustaceans and sunshine fumble
Pebbles mix and carbon replaces
And that consciousness never dries up
It wades and bays
Then it withdraws
leaving
an imprint
that lasts a billion years
and
is then replaced with something infinite
holistic, continuous,
individual when needed
and squarely incomprehensible
I mean, everlasting
You are
I was
We now
I love you Leslie
“I want to know the Kepler torrents with you.”
“The Kepler torrents?”
“The ones between Baltawn and Graesheyawn.”
“The ones in the starmap on the back of your
neck?”
“No. The ones further in … and much further out.”
“The way the lifeforms are formed?”
“Yeah, the way the lifeforms are formed.
Well hold on, yes — I guess. Kind of. Sort of.”
“Ah, so the force between objects.”
“Yes, that’s it, but I mean the unaccounted force
between objects.
I guess — the as of yet, unaccounted force
between objects.”
“Oh, so then I think you mean — love,
or the love that is greater than the chronicles of
humans.”
“Ok then, you’ve made my point — come with me
to the points between Baltawn and Graesheyawn.
Come inside of there. Come for the dead. Come
for the living.”
When we go into the woods
we lay down our weapons.
Place them at their feet,
their basin, their trunks,
on stones or behind shrubs,
on the edge of the forest,
before we enter.
The pine stops bullets.
The hickory blunts swords.
The willow catches arrows.
Such is their magic.
They bare time,
layered in their cores,
marked on their bodies,
growing towards the air;
the past, present, and future.
So what would you expect from
these beings?
In their presence,
we listen and learn,
feel their heartbeats in our heartbeat.
They show us how to become
into the All.
Consciousness masters.
So this
is why we lay down our weapons.
Sometimes
I go from the oak grove
into the light.
The moonlight over the field
of tallgrass.
As a prayer.
To be filled.
Felt, fallen, bathed, and cast.
All in one moment.
Only something
non-human
could do that.
I’m not even sure
I can grasp it.
I just do. I try to live.
Literally, the human being.
While there is so much
simultaneously
happening alongside being,
too dimensional for beingness.
Like I said; a prayer.
Some kind of ionization.
Something electromagnetic.
Into minimal light.
Oak tree stark winter neuronal limbs
reaching.
Into a vast, vast ocean:
the calculus of consciousness
Physicists have yet to decipher.
Though my heart drives me to pray,
to give thanks to the eternal moment.
The thing recognizing itself.
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