It often feels like
Piano notes coming in and out of my lungs
like a little rose sticking out of the mud
on a winter day that is kind of sunny
but not too warm; just light
coming out and through branches of trees half worn out and half resilient after fall and winter’s wind.
Stepping in and out of fringes of immaterial gold;
magic of a massive star and a wooden structure,
gold and silhouettes,
two worlds and a third have met;
think of death that hasn’t come
and life that’s been so numb
yet so gentle
in little things like butterflies that cliché quotes youngsters preach when they don’t know what they’re saying but they say it either way,
The denial of death is the mode of our thought
and the fear of it the mode of our lives.
Thirsty for life we drink water and hungry for more
we take food to decay faster
we smoke cigarettes
and to turn it off we drink it away.
If it’s too morbid then its opposite is too overwhelming cause that’s death and the latter is life and there’s no middle it’s 0 or 1.
not like machines yet wired like machines to breathe and survive in the middle of the desert or in the deepest of the oceans where it’s all-dry and air is out, to hold and be held, love and tears are shed.
And all of that with five senses I wonder
what it all would have been had they been a hundred or none.
And so we paint and get tattooed,
sing and listen to songs,
capture moments in faceless pictures and never see them again for it isn’t the memory that counts:
breathing in and never out until we blow up and fall again, ceaselessly, into the deepest of the oceans and the darkest of the nights,
where we dance with no sound, make love outside our bodies, and grieve over what’s not lost.
It is not beyond death that I want to live,
but beyond life itself.
What is real is not the wall I lean upon
or the words that I utter and write,
but the fairytales and saints that have walked and praised my feet and not the ground, my mind and not my feet, my heart and not my mind.
A cyclic pull from what’s real and what’s not; and what’s not to what is.
Existence, essence, and a bunch of other words to describe what being is and
call it defined.
The delusion of immortal souls and gravity,
afterlife and space-time continuum,
god and man,
and all is real, yet all is not.
And after god comes love,
not the one in the bible but the one in my bed and in my dreams,
in my red face and my tears,
and a lover to hold it all until she cracks like I did at the knowledge of godlessness,
at the knowledge of my condition, that I too fear and tremble, vanity and emptiness, all disappear.
This too shall pass, but no! I want it to last!
But to ridicule religion and call it a day, and claim that I am a realist is not any better a way; remember, what is real is not.
What I’m trying to say is
if with only five senses and we call things real,
then what about all that we feel?
What about god, he who is felt by man but not by me?
What about that tree or that wooden table that stem from one
like the cloud and the cup of water,
the dust from which I come and the dust to which I return.
Perhaps I am god, or perhaps it is that tree or that wall I lean upon;
remember, what is real is not,
in a heartbeat and an upshot.
A third meditation outside the flow, on the next morning, after a long night dream that flashes in an instant, just as post-birth and pre-death;
perpetual post-traumatic recollections of the spark that ignites for an instant in the dark,
the spark that is me,
that is my life;
intermittent in a time-frame of utter blackness, as pre-birth and post-death.
And it shall wash off in instants as my dream last night,
for time is not only inevitable but also a hoax,
not only symbolic but also real,
and remember what I asked you to remember about what is real: it is not.
I see it not in a clock hung upon a wall, but in the ruins of fall.
I see it not in digital figures continuously changing, as it must, as it is wired to, just like us, but in the wrinkles on my mother’s face and decaying bodies that caskets replace.
I see it not in marked years and feasts and what man celebrates, but in the wistfulness of the end of those days, and the bitterness in all that decays.
I intend not to
escort myself to death.
On the contrary,
to pull myself out of it,
like a little rose
in winter’s wind.