It was a moment
of silent spaciousness.
In the midst of a fight,
there was no enemy --
just the effortless
dance of the thing.
That moment
expanded to the infinite,
& snapped back
to one tick after the tock.
Since then,
no catastrophe has felt
too great for a smile.
ideas accelerate to the surface
like air bubbles
from whence they came,
i cannot say
they passed up from below
the lit sea
from the darkness
maybe, like air bubbles,
they follow a mostly straight path,
but i cannot say for certain
what happens below the light
i catch only the vapor that drifts up
out of the popping bubbles
and it must be gathered quickly
before it spreads on the wind,
becoming lukewarm nothing...
damn increasing entropy!
Plunging into darkness,
there is no other way.
In the tomb-like silence,
the mind begins to stray.
To roam, to roam, to roam,
or does it simply sink;
with neither light nor eyes,
one might just be hoodwinked.
My war days are long past.
I'm not quick to beat drums.
I've neither king nor caste.
I've seen the winter come.
Fearful norms have no hold.
The law has lost its sway.
I've broken from the mold,
and turned a roving stray.
Crazy sages / role models:
those freed from conventions,
who can't stand for twaddle,
and shun all pretensions.
There is an angry beast inside
who shakes at me sometimes.
It gives me mean and violent thoughts.
It draws no moral lines.
It'd kill them all in vicious ways
without heartfelt remorse.
This fever of being must be,
until it's run its course.
Then I can be civil again,
and my blood can cool.
And I can play my normal role:
-n- be done playing the fool.
My brain is an angry sac of neurons:
hot wired / electrified.
Sizzling synapses ready to snap
and spew seedy scenes
upon this world.
But no one hears a scream
in the dark void of a barren mind:
though the scream radiates outward
as a painful wave of unknown
origin & purpose,
a tremor in the fabric of us
A ship
crosses the ocean,
in the darkness:
darkness, black & endless
no moon,
no stars,
just clouds -- thick & low
clouds that can't be seen
The ship has lights,
but those lights know
an event horizon
Lights sometime
glint against the waves,
those roiling & undulating
waves,
and the lights bounce off
the ship's hull
But no one can see them,
because if anyone could see them,
the seers would be seen--
unless theirs is a ghost ship,
piloted by literal ghosts,
or some other agent of observation
Maybe there is fog --
not enveloping the ship,
(such mist would be felt
on the skin of those on deck)
but, rather, a fog between
where the ship is,
and where is should be
For it is surely off course,
listlessly drifting,
all hope arrayed against edges:
edges of ice
&
edges of the world
Not that the world is flat,
but, perhaps, it's not fully sculpted:
maybe nothing lies outside
the range of the seen:
outside the bounds of experience
It sounds crazy,
but all kinds of crazy
form in a mind
submerged in darkness