Tag Archives: Spiritive

incidental

a lone deer feeds
in a cornfield still fallow in late June

“maybe soya this year,”
some who know these patterns, say

i check the bleuets on the boundary to the west
these are feral patches deep in reclaimed prairie
still pink-sky blue or Caribbean green,
not yet the dusty indigo blue

i’ll check again tomorrow
like yesterday and the next day

i raise my hands up slow and high
surrendering to the deer
to show i don’t have a gun from a store
or a bow or blade i made

my tradition is not hot steel
my ceremony is not stone, bone, shaft and feathers
my nature is not always claws
these days

i hold a soft, open mouth
a weirdish smile
to show the deer
i have no usable canines

i transmit a thought
concerning the herd
“what happened to the other six you lived and walked with this winter”

no reply
to my attempt at telepathy

i push a wave of [sy][e]mpathy out from my heart
and hope the deer feels it

a moment later
the deer bolts
but not away from me, to the east
but to the west, closer

the twilight train’s here at 9:24 tonight
and the coyotes
compulsively give themselves away
their instinctual howls
predictable, thankfully
unlike people driving cars on highways or country roads
or unusually quiet and still people in the woods
both, licensed to kill
animals

this is the eve of the June Full Moon
and as far as the eye can see
fireflies are hovering above the meadow
harmlessly illuminating for their own kind
an incidental gift to bystanders

and as far as the ear can hear
frogs in a wet woodland are
harmlessly singing for their own kind
an incidental gift to passersby

if i illuminate myself from within
or sing my intuitive songs,
for myself, harmlessly,
and you, and you, and you
do too

would not that be an incidental gift
to our fellow passersby

 

Advertisements

Ouroboros: The Samsaric Ferris Wheel

for-joy-897399_640

The Engineer is unfathomably removed; the Operator is a remote-controlled animatronic, and it seems impossible to hack the controls or jam the gears of the Samsaric Ferris Wheel. The centripetal force both anchors and disorients its occupants – the ride is super-soul-powered by the heavy, endless and ever-increasing mass of humanity.

It’s over-capacity, but I see that this Wheel will never collapse, spinning simultaneously slower and faster – hell, they’re still selling-out tickets. The line to ride is infinitely lengthening, and the Designer is invested in the energy of the eternal revolution of these souls.

I’ve been in this gondola for a while now. When I first boarded, it felt foreign, artificial and uncomfortable, yet it smelled fresh, clean and new, and promised sensuality and excitement, but then I began to recognize some of the other carriages –a familiarity alternating with déjà vu. And there’s a persistence of thought that I may’ve occupied some of the others – I can’t be certain of it though. Some of the landscape seems familiar – fleetingly pleasant, moments of strikingly beauty, but now turning and turning increasingly mundane, sickening, frightening and horrifying.

A camouflaged, serpentine concessionaire slides across and around the sparkling blue and brilliant green structure, interrupting my outward, searching gaze, and whispering the offer of endogenous “refreshments” – a selective offering of ancient, yet succulent apples to any occupant whose blindfold is removed and whose eyes are opened wide:

“Take eat, this is the knowledge that’s been concealed from view; take drink, this is the covenant returned to you?”

Famished and parched for Truth, I take the apple presented to me. My first taste – full of the bitterness of Truth, its juice stinging my heart first, then my throat, my eyes, my ears, my nose, but then I feel its sweet momentum of gnourishment. Ravenous, I bite clean through it, revealing a cross section of the core. There, lies a golden filigree key – the key to my restraint system — a harness and a “safety” bar. Beneath the key – five golden seeds embedded in the five-pointed flower-star of the apple — one is marked ‘he’, and I intuitively know – this is the seed of my Twin – I am his Horcrux tethering a part of him here, and it is also my Red Pill. I tuck it under my tongue, not swallowing yet, and clasp the other four seeds in my left hand.

I free myself with the key, standing up and rocking the carriage fearlessly, and the Wheel Operator takes notice. I’ve been in spinning in the gondola marked 8 Black, but the House is always ahead on this Roulette, and losses, though infrequent, are built into the system. My departure is inconsequential.

My mass dissolving, my definitions fading rapidly, free of Gravity – flesh and graves, I float out and upward, passerby to more opulent and pious gondolas, and ascending above and beyond the Wheel for my very first vista of the Horizon of Light and Dark, of the Continents of Carnival and Circus, of the Oceans of Origin, and the vast expanse of the Universe of Space and Stars. The Illusion of the Grandeur of Earth and the Heavens is revealed to me, and I am momentarily uneasy. This House and Sky is all I may have ever known, but for the Grace.

But I can only save myself, turning toward the faces of the blindfolded – the blind souls – the greedy, the violent, the hateful, the miserable, and the content, the naïve, the decent, the ignorant, among them; I glimpse other seekers too, burgeoning spirits with blindfolds askew or off, eyes opening slightly and slowly like the newly born. I toss the Four Seeds to the Four Directions of the Winds, as Johnny Appleseed to the eternally dying.

With a nod to the serpent,

I swallow the Fifth one, and so begins the beautifully and fully conscious destruction of my remaining matter and the remnants of the ego of my false being.

I feel no pain or fear, my Twin Spirits release simultaneously – reunited, the two become, instantly, rapturously, One.

At last and forevermore, the existence of the Ever-and-Omnipresent vortex – comprised of unfathomable, vacuous, darkness of non-being and unfathomable radiant, lightness of pure-being is revealed to me.

Within this co-existence of Emptiness and Fullness, the Essence of Non-being and Being weave into the seamless blanket of the Pleroma – It enfolds me, envelops me, swallows me, be-comes me.

And I, become It.