Friday, July 25, 2014

Song-stream 1 — Braids of Glass

Consciousness is the sea
and eyes are like the rays of light
looking deep into itself.

Nothing in this universe is like
this universe of yours—
even this blade of grass is different
than this blade of grass you grasp;
only the name remains the same.

Beneath the summer sky, some huckleberry boy is
gliding high above his freshly-cut idyllic turf
as sonic booms of nineteen-fifties’ fear are coloring
his clarity with contrails of his elder’s ghastly white beliefs.

Nothing that we know is ever knowable
but only viruses received from dreams
infected with ancestral viruses.

The mind divides
this universal consciousness to pieces
claiming only one particular to be itself.
Sword-play of war is what must happen next—
until one finally sees that one is absolutely not
this sharp reflection in the mirror.

It’s as if that pure awareness subjectivity of crystalline glass
intends to know itself, and within that big intent, the whole intent
objectifies itself in galaxies of this molecular imagination
evolving in time and space by calling keenly to itself to see—
it always is and is
never not the mirror.

Now knows itself and a blade of grass
isn’t really a blade of grass—
a blade of grass is only
a blade of grass.

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